The Hanged Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

willing her teeth not to chatter.
    â€œYou suss out if any of the household has been to sea, climbed Ben Nevis, or had recent dealings with such a bloke.”
    â€œIt could be a woman.”
    â€œThen she’s a proper Amazon and not a little tweak like yourself. It would take real effort to pull that big boy from his sheets and haul him up, so unless you notice a Brunhilde struttin’ about lifting horses for sport, my money’s on some strapping lad for the dirty work.”
    The inspector had mixed his mythologies, but she had to agree with him. “Are we done?”
    â€œWhat? You chilly? An’ this such a balmy night.”
    *   *   *
    Alex shivered on the upper landing as Lennon bawled for the morgue attendants. They hurried past, bringing the long straw basket that would carry the body.
    One of them muttered something about bloody spook chasers just loud enough for Alex to hear. She was always on guard against comments from the uneducated and superstitious about her trade. Her internal defenses were up; their emotions would not leak past and pollute her own. They didn’t understand, didn’t want to, and never would.
    Lennon ordered each to the bedroom to smell the pillow in situ. One claimed to have a cold, but the other confirmed the stink of ether.
    â€œGood,” said Lennon. “Remember that if you’re called to give evidence. Brook, get his name and make a note.”
    That done, the four of them initialed the page as witnesses.
    â€œPlain as pikestaff,” said Lennon, summing up for the benefit of the morgue man who asked why he had to sniff some toff’s bedding. “Person or persons unknown made entry and inflicted a dose of ether on the man as he slept. Some of it slopped on the pillow. They strung up the poor devil, neat as neat, expecting to draw a verdict of suicide at the inquest, which they won’t get. Cut him clear and get him out.”
    With no desire to watch, Alex went downstairs, feeling sick and sad as she always did afterward. Only it wasn’t afterward; more was yet to come, all part of the investigation. She would have no sleep tonight. Closing her eyes would only conjure images from the death room. Those would fade, given time and some meditative cleansing. Regrettably, given her trade, there would always be replacements.
    The under-stairs door leading to the kitchen opened, and a slender man of middle years garbed in a robe and slippers stepped out. Taking him for the valet or butler—a person she preferred to avoid for the moment—she did not meet his eye. Her attention was instead fixed on a laden tea tray left on the foyer table.
    She hurried to it, pouring a cup of the blessed brew with the same reverence another might accord a French brandy of noble lineage. Blessings on high, it was hot and strong, but not bitter. No need for milk, she drank it straight, glad of the heat.
    â€œPlease, miss, what’s to happen?” asked the man behind her. His voice was hoarse and hushed from grief.
    She shook her head in reply, not wanting to think about the hours to come when she would sit with each member of the household and Read their various feelings. That was invasive, exhausting, and uncomfortable to her, but necessary. Murderers were the most vulnerable when the shock—or guilt or triumph—was fresh. If any here was or had aided the killer, she would discover it, pointing to the most suspicious or discounting the innocent. It was almost impossible to lie to a trained Reader.
    Alex had studied cases where the murderers showed and felt no remorse, even considered what they’d done to be a good job, though she’d yet to encounter one. This might be her first.
    If so, then she would look for that which wasn’t there, but … later. Another cup of that wonderful tea, sweetened with an excess of sugar, would brace her up.
    From the corner of her eye she was aware of the man’s