The Vital Principle by Amy Corwin

of brownish clay, as if some gardener had thought about installing a bush but had decided against it, leaving a partially dug hole.
    “Where?” He was reluctant to believe what they had seen was simply the sheen of moisture covering a clod of dirt.
    “There!” She waved her hand more vigorously.
    “Go back inside,” he yelled. “You’ll fall!”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she called. “Can’t you see it? You’re practically standing on it! It’s a bit of glass—it must be to shine so.”
    Studying the toes of his black boots, he realized she was correct. A small, brown glass bottle lay against one of the clumps of dirt. It was so near the color of damp soil that it was nearly invisible, and in his haste, he’d almost stepped on it.
    Triumphant, he picked it up and waved it at Miss Barnard. She nodded, disappeared back inside, and slammed the window shut. With a shrug, he studied the bottle, feeling a sense of familiarity that he could not place. A trace of liquid remained trapped in the bottom when he held it up to the light and tilted it. The faint scent of bitter almonds emanated from the narrow neck.
    As he held it between his fingers, he realized where he’d seen similar ones. An apothecary near his office in London had an elegant leather case in the window of his shop, fitted out with series of tiny bottles. The small brown bottle he held belonged in a similar traveling case with eleven more vials just like it. The leather medical bags were expensive conceits beloved by ailing, or well-prepared, travelers. If he could find the bag, he’d find the killer.
    Unfortunately, the murderer hadn’t walked into dinner with the entire case under her arm, just this one bottle. He sighed, thinking about Miss Barnard’s lack of pockets or reticule. If she was to be believed, that is. To his aggravation, he found he was inclined to do so. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to pose a few questions to her abigail, just to be sure. Or to check for a traveling medical case with one missing bottle.
    Above him, the sun shone faint and cool. He shut his eyes for a moment, turning like a sunflower toward the light. The heat felt good against his face, slightly burning a few scrapes received during his morning shave. As his cheeks warmed, the faint astringent scent of bay lotion rose, released from his skin by the sun.
    A sudden, swift longing for the house where he grew up hit him. Fruit trees and herbs lined the rear wall of the kitchen garden, scenting the warm air. The crisp apples and quince would be ripe now, and the staff would be busy putting up spiced apple preserves. He could almost taste the sharp, spicy tang of the quince their old cook intermingled with sweet apple and cinnamon in her flaky-crusted pies. Few of the desserts she made lasted until supper unless she had the forethought to make two.
    As a child, Knighton had visited the kitchens often. He wasn’t the heir and no one particularly cared where he was so he wandered at will. As a result, he spent most of his time below stairs, listening to the servants’ gossip and persuading Cook to let him take just one more taste from the pots on the stove. Her protests, accompanied by ill-concealed half-smiles, did little to dissuade him from his depredations, and she'd never been able to resist his plea of starvation.
    He often wondered if she were right when she declared his constant eating was to blame for his towering height of six foot, three inches. His brother, the conscientious and proper heir to the estate, remained a moderate five foot, ten inches tall. He’d never, to the best of Knighton’s knowledge, lowered himself to visit the kitchen. The differences between the two of them still saddened Knighton. He feared his independence revealed a lack of proper respect for his social position, and that lack eventually led to his loss of his comfortable social status. Then he’d completed his descent into the ranks of the middle classes by becoming an inquiry