03 – Nell: Little Lies

NELL made her way quickly toward the inn, hoping the rooms hadn’t been paid in advance – if any were still available at all. No matter what she might learn in the coming days, she would need to find work if she wanted to get by.
Damn it! She hated being broke.
On the way, she watched the passing pedestrians, quietly estimating where they kept their purses. Pickpocketing was an easy and efficient way to get quick cash – so long as one didn’t get caught.
In front of the inn, a group of men caught her eye. Their boots were caked with mud, and their trousers were dirty. Each carried a rifle slung over a shoulder and bore ample ammunition in visible cartridge belts. It seemed strange that such heavily armed men could stand in the middle of the street without anyone batting an eye. Nell was armed too, but she would never display her throwing knives so openly.
“I tell you, I’m going out again. Those beasts must be somewhere,” a large, stout man with a worn porkpie hat called out.
“Leave it, Walter.” An old man with a long, bristling beard and a creaky smoker’s voice tried to calm him. “Wait until morning. That’s when the great hunt begins.”
“You say that!” Walter spat. “My cattle are out there!”
“Walter, the dogs haven’t killed a single piece of livestock in weeks,” the bearded man continued. “Don’t do anything rash.”
“Listen, Greg!” A man with shoulder-length black curls and a three-day beard spoke up. “At least thirty men from the neighborhood are joining the hunt tomorrow, and we’ll kick those dogs right in the arse.”
Nell paused at the door and pretended to study the day’s menu written in chalk on a slate board beside the entrance. So, a hunt for these dogs is planned tomorrow. Perfect timing.
“Thirty? That’s laughable.” Walter spat again. “The swamps are huge. Do you really think we’ll get one of those creatures in our sights?”
“Are you blind? Look around!” The dark-haired man gestured toward the station. “I’ll eat my rifle if there aren’t a hundred, maybe two hundred men out there tomorrow.”
“Yeah, two hundred men who won’t hit a single dog in that damned fog,” Walter said.
“These aren’t poodles,” Greg said. “These are enormous beasts straight from hell. Trust in God’s guidance.”
“Do whatever you want,” Walter said, turning to leave. “I’m going to my pasture, and if one of those black brutes dares show its hide, I’ll fill it with lead.”
“The Lord will guide you, trust in Him!” Greg called after him, then shook his head at the dark-haired man, who merely shrugged and glanced over at Nell.
Caught, she flinched and hurried into the hotel, finding herself in an empty taproom. The place smelled of old grease, beer, and woodstove. Everything here looked worn and dusty: the stairs were hollowed by countless steps, the oil lamps were dim, the furniture scuffed and stained. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a peculiar kind of charm.
The inn’s name came from the dozens of frying pans of all sizes, colours and shapes that decorated the walls. Beneath each pan hung a small brass plaque with a brief inscription. Curious, Nell approached an old black pan with a crooked handle and read the line beneath it: “Duel: Pan versus head. Pan won.” Nell smirked.
“Can I help you?” A thickset man with bushy grey sideburns and equally bushy eyebrows had quietly appeared from the kitchen.
“Do you have any rooms available?” Nell assumed he was the innkeeper. He wore a clean velvet vest over a white linen shirt, which didn’t make him look much like a cook.
“Not many,” the man replied. He stepped behind the counter and opened a large, greasy ledger. “Since Chief Constable Craven announced the hunt, plenty of hunters have come into town.”
“What’s so special about this dog hunt?” Nell sat on one of the many bar stools and shifted slightly to test its stability.
The man looked at her in surprise. “You haven’t heard about it?” He studied Nell, sitting there with her old duffel bag and worn clothes. “What brings you to town, then?”
Nell ignored his question; it was none of his business. “Is there a reward?”
“Of course. Fifty pounds sterling for every black pelt.”
“Fifty pounds?!” That was a whole year’s wages for many tradesmen. Even if her trail ran cold, she could at least earn fifty pounds sterling, and her money worries would vanish. She could buy new boots, new clothes, new weapons! And the very fact that such a reward had been announced showed there was more to the rumors than mere exaggeration.
Oh, Nell, this sounds very promising! “Why would anyone pay so much for a dead dog?”
“Because these aren’t ordinary dogs.” The voice came from the doorway.
“And how does anyone know that?” Nell asked, turning slowly. It was the man with the black curls who had been part of the group outside. He wore beige jeans, and besides his regular belt he had a bandolier slung casually around his narrow hips. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, showing off his chest hair. Over it all he wore a worn parka trimmed with fur at the collar and back, making him look like a hermit who lived in a wilderness tent and earned his living tracking game and catching rabbits with his bare hands.
“These beasts are enormous. Bigger than the judge’s bloody ego!” He sat down uninvited beside Nell, setting his heavy double-barreled rifle on the counter. It was surprisingly fine, clearly valuable, completely at odds with his rugged appearance. “A beer, Quinn,” he ordered.
“One moment.” Quinn lifted his hand, turning back to Nell, who had asked for a room earlier. “Double room? Single room? We only have two double rooms and one single left. Otherwise, we’re full.”
“The single and one double,” Nell said immediately. Quinn gave her a questioning look. “I’m here with two, uh…. colleagues who have some business to finish, but they will join later. I should secure the rooms now.”
“What name?”
The lie slipped from Nell’s lips faster than she intended. “Miller Shepard.”
“Full name?”
“Nell Miller Shepard.” Why had she dragged Cole into this? She could have given any surname; no one could verify it.
Quinn slid the thick book toward her, pointing to the signature line. “How long will you stay?”
“For now, four days.”
“Then I’ll need three shillings in advance, and another nine upon departure.”
Damn. She needed a quick excuse not to pay right away. She smiled apologetically, looking up at Quinn with wide eyes. “My husband has unfortunately taken my suitcase,” she lied.
Quinn took a deep breath, braced both hands on the counter, and looked at her with raised brows. Clearly he had heard every variation of this story before. Nell’s wide-eyed innocence had zero effect.
Don’t blow this, Nell. You want that hot bath. She continued quickly before hesitation could betray the lie. “My husband is still at the police station, getting further details. He’s here because of those mummy murders, not the dogs.”
“Mummy murders?” Quinn’s one eyebrow lowered while the other remained sharply arched.
“She means the mummifications,” the man beside her explained. Nell nodded eagerly in agreement.
“Ah, and your husband…,” Quinn paused, letting his gaze fall over Nell’s hands, where a married woman would normally wear a ring. Nell had none. Perhaps she should have thought of that before hurling another white lie. Gloves would have solved the matter. “…will be coming by shortly?”
“I don’t wear jewelry while traveling, if that’s what you mean,” Nell maintained her poker face, smiling apologetically. “You know… thieves. As a woman, one must be careful.”
Quinn drew a deep breath, and it was obvious he didn’t believe her. “And I’m supposed to buy that? Miss, you’re not the first odd bird to show up here with ‘My husband, my wife, my mother’ and the like, looking for a handout.”
The stranger beside her let out an amused chuckle.
“Leave it, Quinn. I’ll advance the lady the money. Her husband will pay me back later, right?” He gave Nell a look that was amused on the surface but carried a quiet warning. He wasn’t doing this out of kindness – that much was clear. If she didn’t return the money promptly, he would demand some sort of payment – one way or another.
Nell put on a show of relief. “Oh, thank you, Mr…?”
“Victor Ravenwood,” the stranger introduced himself, producing three shillings and handing them to Quinn.
“Women will be the death of you,” he muttered, placing the two keys on the counter.
“Then it will be a pleasant death. Where’s my beer?”
Quinn closed the book and attended to Victor’s order.
“So, Mr Ravenwood.” Nell tried to steer the conversation away from the awkward moment, knowing she’d face enough trouble later if Cole learned of her small fib.
“Just Victor,” he corrected.
“What sort of dogs are these?”
“Enormous and vicious. They first appeared about three weeks ago.” he replied.
“Only three weeks ago?”
“Before that, the worst you’d run into was a fox or a boar. Then suddenly, these enormous creatures appeared. Glowing eyes, jet-black fur.”
“And everyone here believes this? Glowing eyes?” Nell kept her questions as neutral as she could; she wanted the plain truth from the locals.
“Well, nobody would have believed such nonsense at first. Not until the murder. They were out on a fox hunt, that Sir… Sir… what was that filthy rich bastard’s name?”
“Sir William Jones,” Quinn supplied.
“He was torn apart by the dogs during a fox hunt. They had to collect his remains across three hundred feet of moor.”
“Did anyone see that it was the dogs?” Nell pressed on. The story sounded promising. Newspapers might exaggerate, but so far the accounts matched.
“No. But the bite marks on the horse spoke for it. Jones they ripped to shreds; but they didn’t eat him.”
Quinn set the beer on the counter and stayed nearby to join the conversation. “The horse was barely touched by the pack. Just killed.”
“Horse meat doesn’t taste good anyway,” Victor grinned. “Especially that horrid horse sausage you always serve.”
“Oh, Mr Ravenwood eats only sturgeon in a crust of poppy seed now?” Quinn mocked.“Exactly! Why don’t you have sturgeon on the menu?” Victor grinned broadly.
“Tomorrow there’s carp.”
Victor made a face and shuddered. “Ugh! Even worse! Disgusting!”
Nell grew impatient as her two sources drifted off-topic. “Perhaps the pack was disturbed?” she continued quickly, before Quinn could say anything more about the carp.
“If it had been a wild, hungry pack of dogs, they would at least have eaten part of their prey. But allegedly, they carried Jones in pieces out of the swamp,” the innkeeper explained.
“I suspect someone set the dogs on him. That money-grubbing bastard Jones had plenty of enemies,” Victor grunted.
“But raising such beasts would draw notice,” Nell countered.
“The moor is vast. There’s plenty of room to hide,” Quinn added, not ruling out the possibility. “Old Fenhole, for example.”
“Old Fenhole?” Nell asked.
“That’s a ruin somewhere in the moor. I have never seen it myself,” Victor explained.
“Why? Are there no paths?”
Victor looked every inch a man of the wild. Surely he knew the terrain. Not that an old ruin was of real interest; but perhaps there was some truth to the idea that the dogs had come from there.
The answer came from Quinn: “About twenty-five years ago, as the moor spread further and the paths to Old Fenhole disappeared. Without tracks or a map, it became too dangerous, and with the fog, everyone is lost after only a few steps. Even our seasoned peat cutters and hunters, who used to navigate the ruins blindfolded, now walk in circles. They say it’s as if a curse lies over the moor.”
“Right, curses. Soon there will be witches flying on broomsticks,” Victor muttered sarcastically.
“What’s with the fog?” Nell asked. Fog was nothing unusual for a moor, but the way the two men spoke, they believed some unnatural power behind it.
“Mrs Miller Shepard, that is one of Fenhole’s great mysteries,” Quinn began, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “About twenty-five years ago, fog suddenly rolled in over Old Fenhole, and the ground sank.”
“The ground sank?”
“According to scientists, Old Fenhole was built on soft soil. At the time of its founding, the moor was little more than a water pit where they cut peat. Then some spring must have been struck, water came up, and the whole region turned to marsh. That was nearly two hundred years ago. The land was fertile, though, so people moved southward and built the Fenhole we have now.”
“No one cares about that. Tell her about the fog,” Victor interjected.
“I am telling her!!” Quinn snapped. “Anyway, people had made their peace with the moor. But twenty-five years ago, the ground sank again, and with it came the fog. Scientists came, declared that some underground chamber had collapsed and was leaking gas that formed this mist.” He raised both hands. “That is the official explanation. But folk whisper of witchcraft.”
“Oh, spare me the witchcraft,” Victor snorted.
If Nell hadn’t known better, she would have dismissed it as nonsense herself.
“Many claimed to see men and women in the moor back then,” Quinn insisted. “Witches and warlocks practising their sinister magic at the menhirs.”
“Booze-fueled ghosts,” Victor muttered.
“Keep mocking me, and you’ll get nothing more to drink,” Quinn growled.
“What menhirs?” Nell asked.
“The stone circle that surrounds the entire moor,” Quinn went on. “Huge upright stones. They say men and women wandered among them twenty-five years ago, and I swear it was no natural business, because shortly after, the fog came. I tell you, witchcraft was at work. I saw it myself! A hell-gate opened, and now these beasts pour into our town.”
Victor rested his chin in his hand and grinned at Quinn like a grandfather listening to a child’s tall tale. “Believe your story, I’ll stick with the official version: someone is hiding their dogs in the moor.”
Nell didn’t know what to believe. If no one could reach Old Fenhole, how could the dogs? They surely hadn’t been hiding there for twenty-five years only to find their way back now. “And you really believe someone lives in the ruins, breeding enormous dogs?”
“Where else would they come from?” Victor asked. “Everyone’s scared, and since Jones’s murder, people have been spotting the beasts prowling the woods at dusk.”
“As if they were looking for something,” Quinn added.
“Yes, exactly. A curse.” Victor grinned again.
“Keep that up, and I’ll cut you off from the schnapps too,” Quinn muttered, annoyed that Victor kept mocking everything.
“And what else have the dogs done? Have they killed anyone else?” Nell pressed on.
Quinn waved his hand immediately. “No, no! But they’ve lost their fear. It’s only a matter of time before they start taking children. Recently, a few gunslingers began shooting at every black dog that crossed their path.”
“Since then, there are no black yard dogs left in Fenhole,” Victor remarked, showing not the faintest trace of sympathy. Quinn shot him a baffled look; gunning down harmless dogs was nothing to be amused about.
“Chief Constable Craven therefore decided to call this hunt,” the innkeeper explained, turning back to Nell. “The dogs are to be shot once and for all, before one of our citizens ends up with a bullet in his skull.”
“Or teeth in the butt,” Victor added, entirely unnecessarily.
“And Craven is paying fifty pounds per pelt for that?” Nell asked. So far, the dogs had only one death on their account, but the mood grew hotter with every sighting. And then there were still those mummies…
“Well, apparently so. For that sort of money, anyone who can lift a gun crawls out of the woodwork. I’ve heard even a bear hunter from Siberia is in town. Fifty pounds sterling is a lot,” Victor said.
And I could use that money, Nell thought. She desperately needed money, and she had to find out if there was more behind these dogs. Either she’d end up wiser or richer; ideally both.
“Do you have any idea why this Sir Jones was killed?” she asked.
Victor took a deep swallow from his glass and shrugged. “No idea. Don’t care what that bastard got up to.”
“Who was this Jones?”
“A rich–” Quinn began, but Victor cut in sharply:
“Money-grubbing prick!”
Quinn ignored the interruption and continued, “property owner. He had estates all over England, including here in Fenhole.”
“And he stepped over corpses to evict tenants who couldn’t pay,” Victor snorted.
“Victor, enough,” Quinn growled, annoyed.
“It’s true! All the same, this lot.”
“Could someone have sought revenge for that?” Nell asked further.
Quinn puffed out his cheeks. “I didn’t know Sir Jones personally. Many complained, but I never heard of anyone plotting revenge.”
“He was corrupt.” Victor emptied his glass, slamming it on the counter. “Like all the rich snobs.”
“Some of them, yes.” Quinn was visibly trying to keep calm despite Victor’s rant.
“They don’t go around advertising it. Come on, Quinn, name one rich sod in Fenhole who isn’t corrupt! Money, money, always more money. Jones would have dug up his dead mother–”
“Victor!” Quinn shouted, but Victor continued:
“–and sold her if only the price was right!”
Nell watched the two in silence. It was occasionally entertaining to watch people rant, but Victor’s tirade wasn’t helping her at all.
“And I tell you, Quinn, one day people will have had enough and they’ll hang these slave drivers. Then, I tell you, I’ll be out front and–”
“When does it start tomorrow?” Nell interrupted. She didn’t care about their tirade against the rich.
Quinn looked visibly relieved. It clearly wasn’t the first time Victor had flown into such a rant. “At five o’clock in the morning, at the north gate of the town.”
In the dark, into a fog-covered moor? The idea left a bad taste in her mouth. “Good,” she replied simply.
“You’re not coming on the hunt, are you?” Quinn asked skeptically.
“Why not?” Nell countered, lifting her chin challengingly.
Quinn raised both arms defensively. “I’m just saying. It could be quite dangerous. And you’re married.”
“And?”
“Well, as long as your husband doesn’t mind,” Victor chuckled.
“My husband certainly doesn’t mind,” Nell said in the same tone as Victor. It was definitely time to escape this conversation before Victor got any bolder. She doubted Quinn would fuss over the lie afterward. Payment was payment, no matter who it came from, but she didn’t want to take any risks.
“I’ll be there, and my reasons are private,” she said, picking up her duffel bag. “See you by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“I hope before sooner. After all, you still owe me three shillings!” Victor said with a grin. Nell rolled her eyes and hurried up the stairs.
At the top, she paused outside the single room, hesitating. If she was going to spread the lie that she was married, she had to see it through. She sighed and went to the double room. Despite the old-fashioned furniture, it was surprisingly cozy. The bed sagged a little, but it was clean – a luxury Nell had learned to value. By the window stood a simple wooden table with two equally plain chairs. The wardrobe was functional and unadorned. Behind another very narrow wooden door lay a tiny room with a washbasin and a small tin tub, barely large enough to sit in. But with warm water! Just the thought of it was delightful. Diana and Cole would likely take a while yet, so there would be enough time for a proper soak.
She tossed her duffel bag onto the bed and dropped beside it. Just a short rest, then a bath.
Just a moment…

***

The eyes were black as night – so black they seemed to swallow the moonlight itself. With a hiss, the creature lunged at her.
“Nell?”
What?
“Nell!”
There was a knock.
“Nell, are you there?”
Nell opened her eyes and stared at the wooden ceiling. After sixteen years of going in circles, life was taking an increasing toll. Every day felt the same, with no real progress, and her memories were slowly starting to blur. She needed a moment to reorient herself.
Fenhole, Ironpan. Another knock at the door.
“Yes. Yes, I’m awake,” she mumbled, sitting up. Damn, she had fallen asleep. She had meant to take a bath.
“I told you she’s here.” The voice belonged to Diana. A male voice grumbled nearby, clearly annoyed. Cole.
Oh damn. Had Quinn already told them the delightful news that his “wife” was waiting upstairs?
“She can explain herself,” Diana whispered to him.
Yes, he had. Cole had every reason to be in a foul mood. But it didn’t matter. Nell would have to give him some kind of explanation if she wanted to remain part of his investigation. She was tired of constantly chasing shadows. She knew she couldn’t shirk responsibility this time.
I’ll come up with something, she decided, still annoyed at missing her bath. What time was it, anyway? There was no clock in the room, and she hadn’t owned one for years. Through the floorboards came a tangle of voices, laughter, music, and the smell of rich stew. It must be late in the evening.
With a sigh, Nell pushed herself off the bed and opened the door. Cole, standing right behind Diana, looked thunderous. He glowered from beneath his top hat, arms crossed. His foul mood was understandable, yet Nell felt no guilt whatsoever for using him in her lie. If the ground swallowed her up for every lie she told, she’d have reached the centre of the Earth years ago.
“Hello, Cole,” she greeted cheerfully.
“We need to talk,” he growled.
“Of course.” Nell stepped aside so they could enter.
“Why did you do this?” he demanded immediately. “You cannot simply claim to be my wife. That is unacceptable!”
“It’s not a big deal,” Nell said lightly, waving it off. “Do you think anyone checks? Did the police ask to see marriage certificates?”
Diana hid a small smile behind her hand.
“That’s not the point!” Cole’s voice rose. “It’s the lying!”
“No one got hurt, did they?” Nell could understand his anger to a degree, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit that she had given Cole’s surname out of sheer lack of money. Had Victor shown up just a few minutes earlier to lend her the coin, the lie wouldn’t have been necessary. But it was done now.
“You expect cooperation, and at the same time you spread lies!” Cole went on furiously. “I can’t come here, help with an important case, and then on top of it play along with your fabrication.”
“Only two others besides the three of us know about this. Calm down,” Nell muttered.
“No!” he barked. “This will be cleared up at once. We’re going downstairs, and you will explain that we are not married!”
Now he was exaggerating. “Seriously?“ She planted her hands on her hips and met his glare. He could try to force her if he liked. Nobody enjoyed being lied to, true, but life was hard, even for fine gentlemen detectives from Windchurch.
“I don’t want to know what else you’ve lied about! How am I supposed to trust you?” Cole continued.
Apologizing to others was unbearably difficult for Nell. To her, it meant showing weakness, and on the streets weakness was punished at every opportunity.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll clear it up,” she said, hoping to calm him down.She had no intention of doing it, of course. It wasn’t her problem that he got so worked up over it. If I didn’t need his help so badly, I’d let him drown in his own whining, she thought.
Cole drew breath to continue, but Diana intervened gently while lifting her suitcase onto the bed. “Please, let’s not ruin the entire evening over this.” She opened her luggage and began removing neatly folded clothes. “We are all exhausted from the journey. And nothing is going to happen tonight.”
Well… unless Victor shows up demanding his money back.
“You support this?” Cole asked indignantly.
“No, but I think tomorrow is soon enough. Please, Cole, I want a quiet evening. The train ride was long and uncomfortable, and the weather is dreadful. All I want now is a warm meal and then bed,” Diana pleaded.
For a moment it looked like he would keep arguing, but one soft look from Diana melted his stubbornness.
“Tomorrow,” he yielded at last, although he shot Nell a warning look. “No more lies.”
She raised her hands innocently. “Of course.” She wisely kept quiet about her debts and hoped the matter would stay buried long enough. Ideally, she would earn a dog pelt during the hunt, and her money troubles would be solved.
Cole cast a sour look up and down the hallway. “Where’s my room?”
Nell wordlessly handed him the key, its wooden tag showing the room number, and closed the door behind him.
“He’s a bit touchy, isn’t he?” she asked Diana.
The young woman smiled faintly and slipped into the small bathroom, beginning to arrange her hair. “Oh, don’t mind him,” she said.
Nell lingered in the doorway, wondering what there was left to arrange. Diana’s red curls fell perfectly around her shoulders, framing her beautiful face. Any other woman would likely have turned pale with envy, and Nell had to admit, begrudgingly, that she wasn’t excluded from such admiration. She herself had neither such flowing hair nor a perfectly shaped body, though she had muscles, more than the average woman – and more scars.
But she would never trade places with Diana. She was proud of her fighting skills. Still, now and then she caught herself glancing at women in magnificent dresses. She had never worn anything like that, and she didn’t even think them particularly practical, yet they sang of carefree days and lives free of worry.
A day free of worries. Yes, that would be a wish of Nell’s.
“Cole had a difficult divorce,” Diana said as she pinned her hair with delicate slides. “I think marriage isn’t a topic he cares for at present.”
Nell laughed. “I’m not trying to marry him.”
“He knows that,” Diana smiled. “It’s just the lying. His divorce was nasty, with many false accusations against him.”
“What happened?”
“Cole didn’t tell me much, but his wife accused him of becoming a private investigator just to meet other women. She clung to this story and continued spreading it after the divorce, claiming he was a philanderer who pursued women. In the end his business suffered badly, and he blamed her lies for it.”
Nell rolled her eyes. “Good grief.” He had a streak of bad luck, no doubt. But she still wouldn’t apologise. Once their cooperation ended, everyone would go their own way. Cole and Diana would become faint faces among countless others she had encountered in her life. No reason at all to rethink her principles.
“He’ll calm down,” Diana reassured, adjusting her collar one last time. “I’m ready. Let’s go fetch Cole.” She looked stunning, and in case one of the gentlemen downstairs in the tavern misbehaved, Nell always had a dagger at the ready.

***

The taproom below was crowded; nearly every table was taken by men and women enjoying their evening. Near the bar, a violin and a guitar played a lively tune, and the drunken patrons at the neighbouring tables beat their hands against the wood in time. The mood was boisterous, almost as if everyone sensed that tomorrow’s hunt might end badly and wanted to drown out their fear with song.
No sooner had Nell, Diana, and Cole entered the dining room than several half-drunken men roared in their direction, lifting their mugs, with two of them whistling at Diana and blowing her clumsy kisses. Diana flushed in embarrassment, and Cole stepped in front of her to shield her from their gazes. Nell remained unbothered, having encountered such situations countless times. The drunker the guests, the stupider their advances. A blade pressed against their manhood usually reminded them of their manners.
“Nell!”
She searched for the source and recognized Victor, who had risen and was waving at her.
Just my luck, she thought sarcastically. Of course he was here, waiting for his money.
At his table, cluttered with empty tankards and a couple still full, sat three other men. Nell recognized only the bearded one. It took a heartbeat for the name to come to her: Greg. The second was a giant, his booming laughter easily drowning out all the noise in the tavern. Nell had never encountered a man so enormous and wondered how he had even fit through the door. Even the large beer mug looked like a teacup in his hand. His round, jolly face was lined with creases of mirth, a neat grey side-whisker framing it, the rest of his hair hidden beneath a porkpie hat. He wore a wide leather vest that barely contained his equally large and rounded belly, stretching the buttons to their limit.
The last man at the table had passed out, his head buried in his arms.
Nell would have preferred to look for seats elsewhere, but crossing Victor was unwise. He would join the hunt, and she had no desire to be shoved into a bog over three unpaid shillings. For many, that was a fortune – and she knew it too well. With a sigh she went over.
“Sit down!” Victor shouted, shoving the drunk off the chair. The man was so plastered that he rolled to the floor and continued snoring.
“This is Billy G. Hutch,” Victor introduced the giant. “And Greg Treeman.”
The bushy-bearded man nodded in greeting.
“My name is Diana Flanagan,” Diana introduced herself with a charming smile.
“And this must be Mr Miller Shepard.” Victor turned pointedly to Cole.
“So it seems,” Cole replied through gritted teeth and pulled two chairs over for himself and Diana.
“Fine suit you’re wearing, Mister Detective,” Victor teased at once.
“Does it matter?” Cole asked coolly.
“Not afraid it might get dirty?” Victor’s voice was heavy with alcohol, and in this state, he seemed only to be waiting for Cole to give him a reason to quarrel.
“Enough, Victor. Here! You must be thirsty!” Hutch slammed a tankard in front of Cole, sending froth spilling over the rim.
“Indeed,” Cole said, maintaining a strained composure. He wiped the froth from his jacket and nudged the tankard slightly away.
“Oh, come now. Pete hasn’t even touched it,” the giant grinned, nodding toward the snorer on the floor.
“You can’t drink both rum and beer, it knocks you flat,” Greg confirmed with a serious nod, as if imparting wisdom to his grandson.
“No thanks, I’ll pass,” Cole declined again.
“What? Too fine to drink with us?” Victor goaded merrily.
“I prefer wine or whisky,” Cole explained matter-of-factly.
Nell rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so fussy.” This grump seemed to find fault with everything.
Cole shot her a dark look but picked up the beer mug and drank, pulling a face of distaste. “There. Are you gentlemen satisfied now?” he muttered, pushing the beer back to arm’s length.
A waitress came to clear the empty mugs.
“A beer, please!” Nell placed a fresh order at once.
“Red wine for me.” Cole turned to Diana, who looked visibly uncomfortable. “My dear, what–”
“Nonsense! Beer for everyone! This round is on him!” Victor pointed at Cole.
“What?!”
“Just do it.” Nell nudged him with her foot. “Only this one.”
“You and I still need to talk,” the detective growled.
“No problem,” Nell chirped. With that, the detective unwittingly paid off Victor’s debt, while Nell herself won a brief reprieve to find some money.
Cole pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his beard. “In my opinion, it is unwise to drink so much before the hunt.”
“What harm in one or two beers?” Nell shrugged. She had no intention of getting drunk like the other guests. If they shot themselves, that wasn’t her concern.
“Is this to be a sermon?” Victor sneered, only to fall silent when Hutch’s heavy paw landed on his shoulder.
“A successful hunt requires a proper draught of beer. Loosens the joints and sharpens the senses,” Greg declared with raised finger, passing down his piece of wisdom.
“In truth, reflexes grow slower, and in the cold the body loses warmth more quickly. You’re more likely to freeze to death in the moor while drunk than hit a hound,” Diana murmured softly so Greg couldn’t hear.
Hutch drained his mug and studied the vessel thoughtfully, then gave a resigned twist of his mouth. “With enough drink, any hunt looks fine.” The waitress arrived with six fresh mugs, and his expression brightened instantly. “Cheers, lads!”
“And ladies,” Victor added, clinking with everyone at the table. “And the lady here?” He raised his mug toward Diana, who held her own beer to her lips, eyes wide as she surveyed the group. Her discomfort was evident under the attention.
“What is your profession, that brings you to Fenhole?” Victor asked with amusement.
“I dissect the dead,” Diana replied bluntly, with all the casualness of someone saying they scrubbed windows for a living. Greg, Hutch, and Victor stared as if they had just seen a flying pig.
Greg crossed himself. “Blasphemy!”
“Blimey!” Hutch thumped the table flat-handed. “Didn’t expect that.”
Diana shrank slightly in her chair, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden attention.
“You cut open the dead? And you make a living from it?” Victor pressed immediately.
“No one will cut into me when I die!” Greg raised his index finger. “The human body is a temple!”
“Perhaps a temple for your lice, Greg!” Hutch laughed so loudly it temporarily drowned out the tavern for a moment.
“Why do you dissect corpses?” Victor frowned, unsure if Diana had misspoken.
“To solve murder cases,” Diana explained succinctly.
“Oh?”
“A corpse takes a certain time to decay depending on the environment. The place of discovery and state of decay point to time of death, and certain injuries suggest certain weapons. Thus the crime can be reconstructed.”
“With that knowledge we can often identify the killer,” Cole added, trying to shift the focus away from Diana.
Victor looked between them. “So you’re colleagues?”
“We’ve been working together for about two years,” Cole confirmed.
“And it works? Finding a killer by poking around in a stinking corpse?” Victor lifted an eyebrow.
“In many cases, yes,” Cole replied, glancing at Diana for confirmation. She only nodded, so he continued: “Ms. Flanagan assists me with her expertise in solving the mysterious murders in Fenhole.”
“Yeah, your wife mentioned you were here because of the mummies,” Victor nodded. “But she seemed more interested in the dogs.”
Bloody bastard!
“Indeed” Cole looked as though he might say more, prompting Nell to brace her foot for a kick under the table. But he let it be.
The mention of the dogs had struck Greg’s favourite subject, and he eagerly seized the moment before tempers rose again. “These hounds; I saw them with my own eyes!”
“You saw wild boar, Greg,” Hutch corrected.
“I know exactly what I saw!” the old man protested. “Giant beasts. I tell you, the Devil himself sent them!”
“Oh, you shouldn’t listen to him.” Hutch waved dismissively. “Someone sees a large dog in the mist, gets a fright, and because he’s embarrassed to admit he nearly fouled his trousers over a common hound, he tells everyone it was some hell-spawned monster. Then someone else adds glowing eyes, and the tale grows legs. Nonsense, all of it.”
“Hutch, it was real!” Greg jabbed a bony finger at the giant as if to threaten him into belief. “You’ll see for yourself tomorrow.”
“Pfff.” Hutch waved it off. “The only thing we’ll find are wild boars.”
“Then why are you coming along if you don’t believe the stories?” Nell asked.
“I hunt boar,” Hutch explained. “When dozens of men tromp through the moor tomorrow, they’ll stir up a sounder or two, that will hopefully cross my sights.”
“Cheers to that!” Victor raised his mug. “Tomorrow, we’ll get those beasts. I need to refill my household coffers urgently. So two dogs should be in the bag.”