trunk’s interior, as if gazing at it for long enough would produce an image of what had been there and now was not. But nothing came to mind. The trunk held no secrets, and was nothing more than a repository for Angus’s possessions. Ones he no longer needed. She let down the lid as quietly as she could.
With a heavy sigh of frustration, she straightened and gazed back across the room at the body and the thumbprint on its neck. That thumb had not belonged to a woman. An average woman would not have been able to throttle a healthy man like Angus with one hand and stab him with the other, and never mind the brutally efficient gutting of him. She looked back at the shoe prints, and wondered whether there had been two murderers. Or perhaps someone had come after the murder, stepped into the puddle, then looted the trunk? But would a looter have set those valuable bagpipes back on top of the trunk after looking inside? Would a looter even have left the pipes behind? Also, if these prints belonged to a woman, where were the footprints that surely must have been left by the much stronger murderer? There were no marks on the floor other than this one set of prints. Furthermore, if the prints had been left by a woman, why were there no drag marks from cloak or skirt? With both hands occupied with killing Angus, surely those garments would have fallen in the spilled blood.
Now she stepped out into the hall again and gazed once more at the overall scene. She noted the set of her own prints she’d left on the floor, and that they were smaller and more delicate than the murderer’s prints. She was not a large woman, so it stood to reason her feet might be smaller than those belonging to someone who had just throttled and gutted a man. But now it seemed to her that the murderer’s prints were very much larger than her own. Large enough to belong to a man, if that man were wearing shoes with high heels. Fashionable shoes. It occurred to her that the murderer might have been someone of wealth and nobility.
Quietly Suzanne shut the door, then drew a deep breath before moving to the door next to Angus’s. There she raised a hand and knocked on it. And waited. There was a scuffing of feet inside, and a voice. It was a man. He sounded either elderly or habitually drunk, for his voice was a gravelly growl. “Who knocks?”
“My name is Suzanne Thornton, good fellow. I live nearby and I’m a friend of your neighbor. There’s been a murder, and I hope to ask some questions of you, if I may.”
“A murder? I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you didn’t do it. If I thought you had, I would have brought soldiers to detain you. However, I have not. I have come alone and only wish to gather information.”
The door opened a crack, and a single eye peeked out. “You’re alone?” A moment, then, “You’re a woman?”
Sharp eye on this one. She nodded. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
“Dunno. I’ve seen many a woman whose skill with a knife was passing fair.”
She held wide her cloak to demonstrate her lack of weapon. “See? Unarmed.”
The door opened and the man stood, agape at her outfit. Today beneath her cloak she wore her ordinary shirt, doublet, and breeches, but with fashionable tight leggings and high-heeled shoes appropriate for feminine wear. His head tilted like a bird eyeing a worm. “A woman, you say?”
“I find these more comfortable.”
“As you like it, I suppose.” He was not as old in appearance as he had sounded through the door, but old enough. His graying hair was a rat’s nest and he bore a rash of some sort along the right side of his neck that disappeared under his collarless linen shirt. He wore no doublet, and his long-tailed shirt hung outside his breeches. No tights nor leggings, and no shoes at all. His bare feet were filthy, and she suspected he didn’t own any shoes. But as for his age, he appeared as hale as if he were not much older than she.
“May I come in?”
“I’d
With a heavy sigh of frustration, she straightened and gazed back across the room at the body and the thumbprint on its neck. That thumb had not belonged to a woman. An average woman would not have been able to throttle a healthy man like Angus with one hand and stab him with the other, and never mind the brutally efficient gutting of him. She looked back at the shoe prints, and wondered whether there had been two murderers. Or perhaps someone had come after the murder, stepped into the puddle, then looted the trunk? But would a looter have set those valuable bagpipes back on top of the trunk after looking inside? Would a looter even have left the pipes behind? Also, if these prints belonged to a woman, where were the footprints that surely must have been left by the much stronger murderer? There were no marks on the floor other than this one set of prints. Furthermore, if the prints had been left by a woman, why were there no drag marks from cloak or skirt? With both hands occupied with killing Angus, surely those garments would have fallen in the spilled blood.
Now she stepped out into the hall again and gazed once more at the overall scene. She noted the set of her own prints she’d left on the floor, and that they were smaller and more delicate than the murderer’s prints. She was not a large woman, so it stood to reason her feet might be smaller than those belonging to someone who had just throttled and gutted a man. But now it seemed to her that the murderer’s prints were very much larger than her own. Large enough to belong to a man, if that man were wearing shoes with high heels. Fashionable shoes. It occurred to her that the murderer might have been someone of wealth and nobility.
Quietly Suzanne shut the door, then drew a deep breath before moving to the door next to Angus’s. There she raised a hand and knocked on it. And waited. There was a scuffing of feet inside, and a voice. It was a man. He sounded either elderly or habitually drunk, for his voice was a gravelly growl. “Who knocks?”
“My name is Suzanne Thornton, good fellow. I live nearby and I’m a friend of your neighbor. There’s been a murder, and I hope to ask some questions of you, if I may.”
“A murder? I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you didn’t do it. If I thought you had, I would have brought soldiers to detain you. However, I have not. I have come alone and only wish to gather information.”
The door opened a crack, and a single eye peeked out. “You’re alone?” A moment, then, “You’re a woman?”
Sharp eye on this one. She nodded. “You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
“Dunno. I’ve seen many a woman whose skill with a knife was passing fair.”
She held wide her cloak to demonstrate her lack of weapon. “See? Unarmed.”
The door opened and the man stood, agape at her outfit. Today beneath her cloak she wore her ordinary shirt, doublet, and breeches, but with fashionable tight leggings and high-heeled shoes appropriate for feminine wear. His head tilted like a bird eyeing a worm. “A woman, you say?”
“I find these more comfortable.”
“As you like it, I suppose.” He was not as old in appearance as he had sounded through the door, but old enough. His graying hair was a rat’s nest and he bore a rash of some sort along the right side of his neck that disappeared under his collarless linen shirt. He wore no doublet, and his long-tailed shirt hung outside his breeches. No tights nor leggings, and no shoes at all. His bare feet were filthy, and she suspected he didn’t own any shoes. But as for his age, he appeared as hale as if he were not much older than she.
“May I come in?”
“I’d
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