Murders Most Foul by Alanna Knight

and we have better things for bloody knees at Surgeons’ Hall.’
    ‘Surgeons’ Hall?’
    ‘That’s right. I’m a doctor – or I will be in a year or two.’
    ‘Do you live there?’
    Paul shook his head. ‘No, over there.’ He pointed to the big house.
    Vince looked at him. The rifle and the horse. This must be the son of the house, Paul. He remembered hints from his mother that this was the disreputable chap, gambling, always getting drunk, coming home and having to get someone to put him to bed.
    This kind fellow somehow didn’t fit that description but he had to be sure. ‘Is Mr Lumbleigh your father?’
    ‘Stepfather,’ Paul said shortly.
    ‘My mother is your mother’s lady’s maid.’
    Paul looked sour. ‘She’s not my mother,’ he said sharply. ‘My mother is dead.’ His tone was bitter, angry. ‘Mrs Lumbleigh is not much older than me. And
he’
– heemphasised the word – ‘he isn’t any relation of mine. My father was a soldier, a colonel, killed in India – like yours.’
    ‘Do you know my mother? Mrs Laurie?’
    Paul shook his head and said almost apologetically: ‘Not really. We don’t know much about what goes on in the kitchen; as long as food is on the table when required and fires are lit, the servants are expected to remain invisible.’
    Pausing he looked at Vince. Why was he telling this lad, a complete stranger, all this? Now, as he studied the boy with his mop of yellow curls, he saw a striking resemblance to one of the maids he had fancied. Lady’s maid. He remembered meeting her in a dark corridor, standing in her way and trying to grab her and kiss her. She had slapped his face – hard.
    He had been furious and said coldly, ‘That could cost you your job.’
    ‘Not if I have any say in it, Paul.’ The voice was Clara’s. ‘Do go to bed, you silly boy, and leave the maids alone.’ And to the woman, ‘Come along, my dear.’
    Rubbing his sore cheek, he watched her, hating her, swearing he would get revenge some day – on her and his stepfather. He wished they were dead, especially the man who had murdered his beloved mother, by keeping her to rot slowly, dying in a lunatic asylum. The rumour was that she had syphilis. He went cold at the thought – she certainly must have contracted that from her promiscuous husband, as so many wives did from theirs.
     
    As Vince explained his bandaged knee later that day, Lizzie had been very concerned, made a great fuss, and while she was grateful to Paul she was also very curious when shediscovered Vince reading a book by Sir Walter Scott, an author she knew little about except that Edinburgh was very proud of him.
    ‘Where did you get that from?’
    ‘Paul lent it to me,’ said Vince. Paul had come by the cottage and seeing him sitting outside had asked after his knee. ‘I was reading a book from school and he said he could do better than that. And he gave me this book. He likes books too. We’re friends, Ma,’ he added proudly.
    Lizzie had doubts about that and some misgivings regarding this odd friendship, knowing the bad reputation of the profligate son of the house. But Vince was delighted. Paul had opened up a new world for him; he was to teach him how to play whist and show him card tricks to impress the boys in his class at school.
    Lizzie met that piece of information with some anxiety. Paul was a known gambler – and loser.
    ‘And he’s going to teach me chess too. We both like puzzles.’
    She refrained from reminding him that Faro had offered him what she called ‘good’ books, including Shakespeare’s plays, many times, and to show him chess, but that had been met by a scowl, a shrug of disinterest.
    Lizzie would have been even less happy had she known the outcome of Faro’s interview with Paul Lumbleigh and the coachman. The latter was a mere formality, said Gosse, intending to donate that particular task to Faro while he engineered a chat with Vince as an excuse to further his acquaintance with the