Free Shadow of the Raven by Tessa Harris Page A

however, and he swiftly took Thomas’s mount and unloaded his saddlebags, which contained a change of clothes.
    Ducking through the low back entrance, Thomas found himself in the inn’s familiar hallway. The flags were sticky with ale, and stale smoke hung in the gloomy air. Since there was no one at the reception desk, he ventured into the bar, where he spied the landlord. Wiry, thin-lipped Peter Geech, his eyes close set and beady, was deep in conversation with a heavily built man Thomas did not recognize. Dapperly dressed for Brandwick in a brocade coat and riding boots, and wearing a black wig, the stranger leaned nonchalantly against the counter. Pulling at his earlobe with his forefinger and thumb, he kept his head low and his face turned from sight. An open bottle of fine French wine was at his side.
    Seeing the doctor approach from the corner of his eye, Geech broke off from his patron immediately, as if he were a hot coal. He greeted Thomas cordially enough, although his welcome was not entirely convincing. Peter Geech was a businessman before he was a host. The smartly dressed man demurred. It seemed he took no offense and left.
    Forming his features into a shallow smile, Geech greeted his new arrival. “Dr. Silkstone, sir.” He beamed with false enthusiasm, adding, “What an unexpected pleasure.”
    Thomas nodded, brushing aside the remark. “I would stay in one of your rooms for the night, if you please,” he said.
    He was painfully aware that all of Brandwick knew his business and of the terrible goings-on at Boughton. They would have expected him to stay away, not dare show his face again until Lady Lydia Farrell was returned to her rightful place at the hall. He did not belong in Brandwick, they said. Never had. What did he know of English ways? Granted he had pulled his weight during the Great Fogg, helping the sick and dying. He was savvy enough in his ways with corpses, too, telling how a man died from the contents of his gut, or a murder weapon from the marks it left, but that did not make him one of them. Brandwick mud may have been on his riding boots, but Brandwick blood did not run in his veins.
    â€œI will give you our finest room, sir,” said the landlord, his voice thick with false bonhomie. He lifted a key from the board in front of him.
    â€œThat is most kind,” replied Thomas, recalling a previous stay’s damp bedding, chair with uneven legs, and ill-fitting windowpane that allowed the rain in. “But first I must ask for some assistance.”
    â€œOh?” The landlord cocked his head.
    â€œI know that a man, a surveyor, was shot recently in Raven’s Wood,” Thomas began.
    Geech nodded his sleek black head. “Terrible do, sir,” he replied. “The curfew’s not good for business, neither.”
    â€œI’m sure not,” said Thomas quickly. “But I’ve been asked by the Oxford coroner to report on the matter and I need to visit the scene of the incident.”
    Geech’s small eyes narrowed further. “And . . . ?”
    â€œAnd I wondered if you knew of anyone who might be able to show me.”
    For a moment, the landlord regarded his patron, as if trying to gauge just how much he wanted to see where the surveyor had been shot.
    â€œI will pay,” added Thomas hopefully.
    Yet it was clear that even this most wily of landlords did not believe that in such dealings, the law of supply and demand should apply. He shook his head and pursed his lips, making an odd sucking sound as he did so. “You’ll not get no one ’round these parts to take you up to Raven’s Wood, Doctor,” he said finally, “no matter how much money you offer.”

Chapter 10
    I t did not take Thomas long to realize that any investigation he undertook into the surveyor’s murder would be conducted on his own. Such was the antipathy toward Sir Montagu and the prospect of enclosure among the