Free A Matter of Breeding by J. Sydney Jones Page B

had read that this was the site where the datura seeds were discovered by one enterprising young policeman who at first took them for rabbit droppings on the girl’s gingham dress.
    They heard a train whistle, and the sergeant consulted his watch once again.
    ‘Two minutes late,’ Metzler said. ‘You friend will be on his way to Graz.’
    Leaving the gendarmerie, Werthen and Stoker determined first to have a look at the scene of the crime. The track leading up to the church of Maria Strassengel was nearby, and soon they were walking through dappled light as the autumn sun broke through the cloud cover and filtered through the fir trees along the path. Though the murder had happened almost three weeks earlier, the scene of the crime was still roped off, as Gross had advised. There were wooden stakes demarking the spot where Fräulein Feininger’s body was discovered by one of the nuns from the church who was taking an evening constitutional. According to the police report Werthen had read, the woman, Sister Agnes, had been walking in the woods below the church just before sunset at about six o’clock. She had spotted what she thought was a sheep kill. One of the local farmers kept sheep and they were forever getting loose and then were savaged by packs of grey wolves that roamed the foothills. But upon closer inspection, Sister Agnes was shocked to discover that this was no carrion, but instead the body of a dead woman. Finally making out the features of the young woman, Sister Agnes realized this was Maria Feininger who had been supposed to meet with her that very afternoon and had never shown up for the appointment.
    Werthen slipped under the rope barricade and made his way gingerly around the site, careful not to disturb anything. He was followed by Stoker.
    ‘What do we expect to find?’ the Irishman asked.
    A large black crow flew overhead and its cawing sound echoed in the wood.
    ‘Anything the local authorities overlooked,’ Werthen answered, but he had no idea what that might be.
    Suddenly a low-hanging branch by his face was shattered and the crack of a rifle sounded instantly thereafter. Werthen instinctively dove to the ground seeking cover as a second shot pinged off a nearby boulder.
    He was surprised to discover that he had automatically made his way behind a large spruce stump, its top charred by the lightning that had destroyed the tree.
    ‘It’s coming from that slope,’ Stoker, who was taking cover behind the boulder, yelled to him. ‘I saw the smoke with the second shot.’
    A third crack made them duck their heads.
    ‘I’m going to work my way around the back of the slope,’ Stoker said. ‘Throw your hat to the left when I tell you.’
    ‘No heroics, Stoker. I was hired to protect you.’
    ‘On a count of three, then,’ the writer hissed.
    ‘Stay in place.’
    ‘And let whoever it is come to pick us off? One—’
    ‘Do as I say, Stoker.’
    ‘Two.’
    ‘This is madness.’
    ‘Three.’
    Madness or not, Werthen did as he was bidden, and tossed his homburg to the left, drawing two rapid shots that went far wide of the intended target. He had not even noticed Stoker slinking off into the underbrush and could only make out a faint rustling of bracken now and again.
    Werthen kept his head down as two more shots rang out. Time dragged on interminably and he began to wonder if the last two shots had been meant for Stoker. He let another several minutes go by and then determined he must do something. Perhaps Stoker lay wounded on the slope.
    ‘Werthen!’
    The voice was unmistakable.
    ‘Where are you, Stoker?’
    ‘Up here. I’ve got him.’
    Werthen glanced to the slope and now saw Stoker waving down to him. He raced straight through the bracken up the slope, branches catching on his woolen trousers, not giving a thought to the usual throbbing pain in his right knee, an old wound.
    Once on higher ground, he found what appeared to be a makeshift hunting box. Stoker, legs spread wide,