Free Lord John and the Private Matter by Diana Gabaldon Page A

briskly now, engrossed in the details of Grey’s account.
    “Well, you see, Tom, I still cannot say so with any certainty. I was hoping that perhaps we should discover some particular mark upon the body that would make it clear that someone had deliberately set out to murder Sergeant O’Connell, and I found nothing of that nature. On the other hand . . .”
    “On the other hand, whoever stamped on his face didn’t like him much,” Tom completed the thought shrewdly. “
That
was no accident, me lord.”
    “No, it wasn’t,” Grey agreed dryly. “That was done after death, not in the frenzy of the moment.”
    Tom’s eyes went quite round.
    “However do you know that? Me lord,” he added hastily.
    “You looked closely at the heelprint? Several of the nailheads had broken through the skin, and yet there was no blood extravasated.”
    Tom gave him a look of mingled bewilderment and suspicion, obviously suspecting that Grey had made up the word upon the moment for the express purpose of tormenting him, but merely said, “Oh?”
    “Oh, indeed.” Grey felt some slight chagrin at having inadvertently shown up the deficiencies of Tom’s vocabulary, but didn’t wish to make further issue of the point by apologizing.
    “Dead men don’t bleed, you see—save they have suffered some grievous wound, such as the loss of a limb, and are picked up soon after. Then you will see some dripping, of course, but the blood soon thickens as it chills, and—” Seeing the pallid look reappear on Tom’s face, he coughed, and resumed upon another tack.
    “No doubt you are thinking that the nail marks might have bled, but the blood had been cleansed away?”
    “Oh. Um . . . yes,” Tom said faintly.
    “Possible,” Grey conceded, “but not likely. Wounds to the head bleed inordinately—like a stuck pig, as the saying is.”
    “Whoever says it hasn’t likely seen a stuck pig,” Tom said, rallying stoutly. “I have. Floods of it, there is. Enough to fill a barrel—or two!”
    Grey nodded, noting that it was clearly not the notion of blood per se that was disturbing the lad.
    “Yes, that’s the way of it. I looked very carefully and found no dried blood in the corpse’s hair or on the skin of the face—though the cleansing appeared otherwise to be rather crude. So no, I am fairly sure the mark was made some little time after the Sergeant had ceased to breathe.”
    “Well, it wasn’t Jack what made it!”
    Grey glanced at him, startled. Well, now he knew what was disturbing the boy; beyond simple worry at his brother’s absence, Tom clearly feared that Jack Byrd might be guilty of murder—or at least suspected of it.
    “I did not suggest that he did,” he replied carefully.
    “But I know he didn’t! I can prove it, me lord!” Byrd grasped him by the sleeve, carried away by the passion of his speech.
    “Jack’s shoes have square heels, me lord! Whoever stamped the dead cove had round ones! Wooden ones, too, and Jack’s shoes have leather heels!”
    He paused, almost panting in his excitement, searching Grey’s face with wide eyes, anxious for any sign of agreement.
    “I see,” Grey said slowly. The boy was still gripping his arm. He put his own hand over the boy’s and squeezed lightly. “I am glad to hear it, Tom. Very glad.”
    Byrd searched his face a moment longer, then evidently found what he had been seeking, for he drew a deep breath and let go of Grey’s sleeve with a shaky nod.
    They reached Bow Street a few moments later, and Grey waved an arm to summon a carriage, glad of the excuse to discontinue the conversation. For while he was sure that Tom was telling the truth regarding his brother’s shoes, one fact remained: The disappearance of Jack Byrd was still the main reason for presuming that O’Connell’s death had been no accident.
             
    Harry Quarry was eating supper at his desk while doing paperwork, but put aside both plate and papers to listen to Grey’s account of