The Revenge of Captain Paine by Andrew Pepper Page B

length of the torso and the thick hairs on his chest, Pyke guessed he would have been about six foot, with dark hair. He inspected the cluster of burn marks again, wondering what might have caused them and whether they had, in fact, been inflicted by the killer. Why bother to do this to a man whose head you were about to cut off?
    Pyke brought the lantern up to the neck stump and inspected it, trying to work out what instrument had been used in the decapitation. The wound seemed remarkably clean, as though the man’s head had indeed been removed with a couple of swings of an axe rather than hacked off in a less clinical manner. This suggested the act may have been premeditated, that the killer had planned to decapitate his victim, but it didn’t begin to suggest why he’d chosen to do so in the first place. Pyke could rule out torture: he was reasonably confident that the decapitation had taken place after the man had died. There were no rope marks around the wrists or ankles, for example, and to cut off someone’s head while they were still alive would definitely require restraints. This left the thorny question of motivation. Why had someone gone to the trouble of decapitating a man they had already murdered? The most obvious answer was that the killer or killers had wanted to conceal the victim’s identity.
    ‘Where was the body found?’ Pyke asked, once he’d rejoined Yellowplush at the back of the watch-house.
    ‘A farmer fished him out of the river just to the east of the town.’
    Pyke considered this for a moment. ‘Would I be correct in assuming the river flows from west to east?’
    Yellowplush nodded.
    ‘So the body was either dumped into the river where the farmer found it or, more likely, it ended up there having been discarded elsewhere.’ Pyke rubbed his eyes. ‘Who owns the land upstream from where the corpse was found?’
    ‘Is that relevant?’
    ‘It might be,’ Pyke said. ‘If you don’t tell me I can always find out from someone else.’
    ‘Sir Horsley Rockingham.’
    ‘A friend of yours?’
    The magistrate stared at him but declined to answer the question.
    ‘Are you planning to leave the body down there until it rots?’
    ‘The body belongs to a local lad. Word spreads slowly in the country. I’m waiting to see if someone decides to claim it.’
    ‘You know it’s a local lad for certain?’
    Yellowplush shrugged.
    Pyke nodded. ‘So tell me something. How does an ex-soldier suddenly become a magistrate?’
    The question seemed to take Yellowplush by surprise. ‘I don’t take kindly to your insinuation, sir. Remember, you’re here as my guest and, as my guest, your invitation can easily be revoked.’
    ‘Is that what happened to the dead man?’ Pyke held the magistrate’s stare. ‘Was his invitation revoked, too?’
    ‘You’d do as well to hold your tongue. The countryside isn’t always the peaceful idyll city folk imagine it is.’
    ‘I can see that well enough with my own eyes.’ In the yard men were still queuing for weapons.
    Yellowplush rearranged his wig and stared out into the darkness. ‘Navvies can be a barbarous lot but we’ll not tolerate their violence. If they try something, we’ll be ready for them.’
    ‘Why would they try something?’ Pyke didn’t bother to hide his scorn. ‘What is it you’re not telling me?’
    ‘Despite that letter, I’m not obliged to tell you a thing.’ Yellowplush waited for a few moments, his stare intensifying. ‘And in answer to your question, do heathens need a reason to embrace violence?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Pyke said, staring directly into his dry eyes. ‘Do they?’
    ‘I think you’ve officially outstayed your welcome.’ Yellowplush ran the tip of his pink tongue across his pale, flaky lips. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight, sir.’
    ‘Goodnight and good riddance?’
    ‘Country people don’t much care for city types with their fancy clothes and slick ways.’
    ‘I’m sure the feeling’s