(Midwinter Manor)Poacher's Fall by JL Merrow Page B

heavyset and muscular man, his broad shoulders made broader, no doubt, by his work as a laborer.
    Idling his school holidays away wandering around the estate, his father too busy and his mother too ill to spare him much time, Philip had seen the man often as he toiled. Costessey had most times been in shirtsleeves, and one memorably hot summer Philip had seen him stripped to the waist, his tanned back gleaming with sweat. Costessey had exerted a sort of repellent fascination upon Philip’s adolescent mind; he’d been such an earthy, virile man, with a knowing glint in his eye even as he tipped his hat to the young master.
    A favorite with the maidservants, who’d whispered and giggled about him, for all that he was a married man.
    Drayton hadn’t shared their fondness for Costessey. For as long as Philip could remember, the gamekeeper had been after his father, and then Philip himself, to have the man sacked and his young family turned off the estate. “Costesseys! Thieves and poachers, the lot of ’em!” he’d mutter sourly to anyone willing to listen. To the young Philip, Drayton’s tales of an inveterate poacher always one step ahead of his would-be nemesis had only increased the man’s allure. Lord, he’d been such an innocent in those days.
    Flinging himself out of his chair, Philip began to pace, his steps making barely a sound despite the somewhat worn state of the Aubusson carpet. It’d been a bad business about Costessey’s death. Philip had been away when it happened, his aunt having pressured him to spend some time with her in the West Country for his health. It hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea to be away from the estate during a season that held such painful memories for him, but it had been a disaster. The bleak scenery of Dartmoor had only deepened his melancholy, and he’d felt inexplicably guilty for leaving the estate—more so when he returned to hear of Costessey’s death.
    From what he’d heard, Costessey had suffered some injury to his leg around harvest time. The wound had festered, and Costessey had been dead by All Souls Day, leaving his wife with five children aged from fifteen down to one and no source of income. Philip had given instructions that she be let off rent for the quarter, but still, young Daniel must have had to step into the breach. And now, it seemed, the son had taken on the mantle of the father in the poaching business as well. Philip supposed he should be angry at the man for stealing from him, but damn it, what difference did a few rabbits here or there make to him ? He’d long thought Drayton overzealous in the performance of his duties, but he’d no grounds to give the man notice, so he’d just let things be.
    These last few years, he’d let most things be.
    Suddenly tired, Philip sank back into his chair. Thank God Drayton hadn’t let his feelings about poachers dissuade him from his Christian duty to help the afflicted. Philip couldn’t have borne it if the young man had died on the estate, which he might yet, for all Philip knew. Slamming down his whisky untasted, he strode to the door and flung it open, forestalling Standish who was walking toward it. “Standish? Is the doctor here yet?”
    “No, sir, but they’re bringing the young man in now.”
    Philip swallowed as he watched the men carry in the limp form of Daniel Costessey. His handsome, roguish face—almost uncannily like his father’s—was as pale as death, save for the shockingly bright-red blood that marred one temple. His clothes were threadbare and torn, and by the looks of them, wet through. How long had he lain in the snow, all alone in the darkness? Philip’s jaw clenched.
    “Sir,” Standish murmured in his ear. “I will see to it that the young man is well cared for. You need not trouble yourself further. I’m sure you wish to retire—”
    “No!” Philip winced a little at the unwarranted sharpness of his tone. “No, I’ll wait to speak with the doctor, after he’s