No Pity for the Dead
“Besides the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco, Nick could smell linseed oil and turpentine, and the scent of roses through the open window currently providing a sunny view of the back garden.
“Policeman to see you, Mr. Martin,” the woman droned to her employer. Martin was reading a newspaper—the Mercantile Gazette, it looked like—as he sat in a chair with his legs stretched out on an ottoman, a rug tossed over them.
The thick carpeting underfoot had muffled their footsteps, and Martin looked over, startled from his concentration on his newspaper. His domestic hoofed it before Martin had a chance to tell her to take Nick back to where she’d found him.
“Ah, Mr. Greaves. Seems early in the day for a visit by a detective.” He folded his paper and tossed it onto a nearby table. “I also suspect my doctor would not approve of my entertaining a police officer. But I find myself curious. Has another of Mr. Hutchinson’s workers been found dead?”
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