Free The Anatomist's Apprentice by Tessa Harris

rodentlike looks. He loved to bait his irksome brother-in-law, especially in front of the servants, but the irony of his words now haunted him.
    The embers had settled down to a warming glow once more and the captain was contemplating pouring himself another brandy when he heard footsteps outside. Hannah suddenly appeared in the room, looking strained. The woman was still in mourning for her lost daughter and Farrell noted that her suffering had etched itself in her face. Streaks of white now flecked the auburn hair that peeped under her cap.
    “Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, but Farrell sensed there was more to her question than a mere eagerness to serve. He smiled at her.
    “Yes.” He held out his empty glass and she took it over to the sideboard, set it down, and lifted the stopper off the decanter. He watched her and saw that she was shaking.
    “Steady now,” he called across the room as the stopper fell out of her grasp and clattered, thankfully unbroken, onto the rug below. Once more the tears flowed freely as the servant suddenly broke down, lifting her apron up to her face. Farrell rose and went over to her, putting a comforting arm around her. He had long abandoned any sense of propriety when it came to female members of staff.
    “There, there,” he comforted her. She looked at him with reddened eyes. “What is it?”
    “Will they tell me to say things in court, sir, about his lordship?” she asked with all the vulnerability of a helpless child.
    Farrell paused, slightly nonplussed by the maidservant’s question. “You saw what happened to your master, did you not, Hannah?”
    “I’ll never forget it, sir. His eyes, the blood ...”
    The Irishman nodded impatiently, not wishing to relive the scene. “Then I am afraid you must tell the coroner what you saw.”
    She nodded slowly, regaining her composure. Farrell took the decanter and poured out a glass of brandy. He was just about to down it himself, when he thought better of it and offered it to Hannah. “Here, drink this,” he told her. She looked at him and took the glass, gulping from it quickly, as if it were some vile-tasting medicine. With an outstretched hand he stroked her arm in a gesture of comfort. His hand brushed her bare lower arm and she lifted her head toward his.
    “Sir, Mr. Lavington is here to see you.” Howard’s unbidden voice broke the moment. He stood agitated at the doorway, then, suddenly realizing what he had just witnessed, he became even more harassed. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said disapprovingly, “but he said it was important... .”
    James Lavington also appeared, wearing a worried expression on the side of his face that was not paralyzed. Farrell smiled. “That will be all, Howard. Leave us now.” He turned to Hannah. “You, too,” he instructed and he guided his friend inside the study.
    “I came as soon as I heard,” said Lavington, accepting the glass of brandy Farrell handed him. “ ’Tis the talk of the village.” Both men sat down in front of the fire. Lavington was tense, hunching over his glass.
    “The godfather is behind it,” Farrell said.
    “Sir Montagu? I see,” nodded Lavington.
    “He would do anything to exact his revenge on me.” The Irishman’s voice was strangely measured and calm. Lavington was silent for a moment and sipped at his brandy as if taking in the gravity of the situation.
    “These inquests are usually thorough affairs, Farrell,” he said earnestly. As a lawyer, he had been present at two while in India and knew that any coroner worth his salt would explore every avenue, especially in a case such as the young earl’s.
    The captain let out a forced laugh. “I imagine they will try and find out how Crick died,” he countered sarcastically.
    Lavington looked annoyed. “They will call witnesses. They will probe. Awkward questions will be asked.” Farrell had rarely seen his friend look so apprehensive. He had played with him for high stakes at