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‘and the injury is distinctive.’

    Almost at once Crowther heard steps coming up the path from Thornleigh. The gentleman himself was approaching fast.

    He should, given his features and form, have been handsome, but the wound was violent, his expression was ugly, and his dress a little slovenly. As the distance between them shortened, Crowther took the chance to study him as he would a subject on a table: broken veins around the nose, a high colour and darkly rimmed eyes. A drinker. Liver disease in all likelihood already advanced. Crowther would not be surprised to smell wine on his breath even this early in the day. It still surprised him how many great houses could turn out sons who failed, in his opinion, to be gentlemen.

    The man began to speak in a hoarse baritone before he had quite reached them.

    ‘Mrs Westerman, do you know how many times in the years since I came home I have been asked to look at corpses of men likely to be my brother? Four. Two itinerants who decided to die in Pulborough without leaving any convincing address, one unfortunate drowned in the Tar and dragged up a month later when his own mother wouldn’t know him, and one corpse in Ashwell who turned out to be dark-haired and a foot shorter than Alexander was when he left home. And now you , ma’am, are scouring the countryside to find me others.’

    Crowther glanced across at his companion. For the first time that morning she looked a little shocked, and he thought he saw a tremble in her hand. He stepped forward and bowed - low enough to suggest sarcasm.

    ‘Well, at least, sir, this gentleman had the consideration to be murdered relatively close to your home. So the inconvenience is kept to a minimum.’

    The young man started and turned to face him, Crowther realised he had been standing where Mr Thornleigh’s damaged vision might have missed him, and wondered if he would have spoken in such a manner to a lady if he had not thought she was alone. He looked strong, powerful still in spite of the drink. Riding probably, though youthful bulk was already beginning to turn to fat. Crowther imagined what his muscular forearm would look like with its skin removed. The younger man cleared his throat, and had the decency at least to look a little embarrassed.

    ‘You are our natural philosopher, Mr Crowther, are you not?’

    ‘I am.’

    ‘I am Hugh Thornleigh.’ He bowed and shook his head, and seemed to deflate a little. ‘My apologies, Mrs Westerman. I spoke very ill-naturedly. Thank you for your note, and I hope the shock of finding this unfortunate has not been too great.’ He paused again, and cleared his throat. ‘I hope your family is well.’

    Crowther could almost like him now. There was a residual charm under the ill-temper, a pleasing deference to Mrs Westerman. It was as if when he had shaken his head it had dislodged a mask, and he had found his own better self beneath it. He was a bear in a frockcoat. A beast - domesticated. Crowther remembered his own brother.

    Mrs Westerman, though, was still angry. Her voice was cold, and she looked through the young man as she spoke rather than at him.

    ‘We are all well, Mr Thornleigh. Here is the body.’ She flicked aside the cloak again from the body’s face with the tip of her crop. Thornleigh sucked in his breath.

    ‘I had thought perhaps a vagrant. You did say murdered . . .’ He stepped nearer. ‘Was anything found on him?’ Harriet dropped the ring into his outstretched hand then withdrew, pulling on her glove again. Hugh shuddered a little as it hit his palm and caught the sun. Then he looked at them again quickly. ‘Nothing else?’

    ‘We have not completed rifling through his pockets, I’m afraid,’ Crowther said. ‘May I ask, sir, do you know this man?’

    Hugh caught his tone and steadied himself.

    ‘I am sure he is not Alexander, though this man is of his age and colouring. Again my apologies, madam. I do not know how he came by the ring, though.