The Path of the Wicked Read Online Free Page B

were able to talk about my latest case.
    â€˜There were a lot of questions I didn’t ask Mr Godwit,’ I said.
    â€˜Not usual, for you.’
    Amos couldn’t know that when I’d talked to Mr Godwit I thought I wouldn’t be taking up his case.
    â€˜As far as I can gather, the accused man, Picton, is claiming he was somewhere else when she was killed, but won’t say where,’ I said. ‘Two things could follow from that. One is that he’s lying.’
    â€˜And the other is that he was somewhere else, but it would be awkward for another party if he talked about it,’ Amos said.
    â€˜Exactly.’
    â€˜Which usually means there’s a woman in the case.’
    â€˜There is anyway – the poor governess. There’s gossip that she and Picton were meeting in secret. Or are you suggesting there’s another woman?’
    â€˜If a man won’t talk about where he was, often enough it’s because he was somewhere he shouldn’t be, doing something he shouldn’t do,’ Amos said.
    â€˜Not necessarily with a woman. He might have been committing some other crime,’ I said.
    But that wasn’t logical because – unless the other crime had been a murder too – a man would surely prefer to be sentenced for the lesser one.
    â€˜Any road, he’ll have to talk about it come the assizes,’ Amos said. ‘That’s unless he thinks it’s worth getting hanged for.’
    Which was as far as we could get on the few facts as I knew them. The long day’s journey was uneventful and we spent the night on the outskirts of Abingdon. The next day, by bridleways up the eastern slopes of the Cotswolds, was pure pleasure. The hills were patched green and gold, sheep pasture alternating with fields of ripe or ripening grain under a blue sky. It had been a good summer, with just enough rain to bring on the crops, and the farmers had started harvesting the barley. Lines of men with scythes moved forward in such regular rhythm that, from a distance, they looked like one great munching animal, laying swathes of gold smoothly behind them. I almost forgot why we were travelling, and what I was travelling from, in the sheer enjoyment of being back in the country. Even Senator relaxed and only tried to shy a couple of times a mile.
    â€˜Country horse,’ Amos said. ‘By the time I get him to Hereford, a lady could ride him in a silk bridle.’
    The horse showed a fair turn of speed when we cantered, but had nothing like Rancie’s stamina.
    We came to Northleach as the sun was low and red in the sky and the air hazed golden with dust from the harvest. Here we were on the crest of the Cotswolds, with an easy ride down to Cheltenham next day.
    â€˜What’s that building?’ I said.
    It rose stark and black against the western sky, like a barracks. Amos asked a lad sitting on the gate.
    â€˜House of correction, that is.’
    I didn’t know where Jack Picton had been sent, but it was probably some larger prison. Still, my good mood sank. Tiredness, perhaps.
    The inn was surprisingly busy. I was lucky to get a room, Amos had to share with three other grooms, and the stables were so crowded that Rancie and Senator had to make do with stalls instead of loose boxes. It turned out that some grooms and jockeys, along with their horses, were making their way home from the Cheltenham race meeting that had taken place the week before. This time there were no other ladies present, so I had to eat my chop and drink my glass of wine at an unsteady table in my attic room, with the window open to let out the day’s heat. The clink of glasses, male talk and laughter came up from the public bar. Outside in the yard, a dozen or so tobacco pipes glowed in the dusk. I guessed that one of them belonged to Amos and that he was in his element, getting the latest racing gossip. As we rode out next morning, I had some of the fruits of