The Hanged Man Read Online Free PDF

hesitant approach. “Miss, begging your pardon, but—” He stopped in his tracks. “Good heavens.… Lady Drina?”
    She gave an involuntary start and nearly dropped the cup. She’d not heard that name in years. Years. Not since—
    Alex rounded on him. Time slipped treacherously and dizzily backward as she matched his face to one in her memory. He was older, his thin hair showing gray, but the port wine birthmark on his right ear was unmistakable.
    â€œFingate?” she whispered in disbelief.
    â€œBless you for remembering, Lady Drina. It’s myself, sure enough. How you’ve grown, if you’ll pardon my saying.” A crooked smile passed briefly over his drawn features.
    â€œWhatever are you doing here?” she asked, and the question sounded foolish even as the words left her lips. She abruptly knew the answer, but her mind froze, absolutely froze.
    â€œWhat I’ve always been doing, looking after—oh! Oh, no .” His expression shifted to horrified dismay.
    She stared up at the landing where the grunting morgue men were just beginning to descend with the heavily laden basket. It had no lid. A grimy sheet of stained canvas served as a cover, but it caught on something and began to peel away, revealing what was inside.
    â€œThey didn’t tell you…?” Fingate whispered.
    She blinked rapidly as ghastly realization flooded in. Step by step, the men lugged their burden closer to her, and she would see—
    â€œIs it—? I … I didn’t know it was … no one said …”
    Fingate rushed forward, putting himself between, blocking her view. Against all rules of proper deportment that male servants must follow toward their female betters, he threw an arm around her shoulders and dragged her to the parlor. “There now, you’ve no need to see your poor father like that. In here—and for God’s sake close your eyes.”

 
    CHAPTER TWO
    In Which Cold Inquiries Are Made of the Past and Present
    There was hell to pay when Lennon was informed.
    As a relative of the deceased, Alex should never have been allowed anywhere near the house. In a case of murder, family members were always the first suspects.
    Her psychical observations would be discounted, the room sealed again until another member of the Service arrived. Of course by now the scene had been emotionally contaminated by the coroner’s men, by Brook and Lennon, and by Alex herself. A very experienced Reader might make sense of the mess, but each passing second meant the dispersal of latent emotions—including those of the servants who had yet to be questioned. Given time, some suspects could cover their reactions, masking their feelings as well as the most adept actor.
    Murder disguised as suicide was complicated enough, but the procedural breach put Lennon in a fury, which he aimed at Lieutenant Brook.
    â€œI’ll not be responsible,” he roared. “If you bloody Service people can’t keep track of your own, then it’s not my fault when things go wrong.”
    Alex sat numb and silent in the parlor, out of the direct line of fire, finding Lennon’s reaction to be more comforting than if he’d taken her hand and offered sympathetic condolences. Though his anger clouded this part of the house, it was a good thing. He’d stir people up, get them moving, see to it they found out who had murdered her—
    God, I can’t get my head around it. It’s too grotesque.
    She choked at the rose scent of the handkerchief and threw it away. The smell clung to her hands. She clenched them into fists and hammered them once on the arms of her chair. Only Fingate, standing protectively over her, noticed, but made no move, just a soft humming sound of distress.
    Alex glanced up at him, noting other minor changes the years had made. His soft brown eyes were sad and full of pity for her. Her control slipped and she felt a wickedly