Lewis Lamb was having none of it at first, sending Murphy after the reporter whenever she came too close to the barrier. Not to be daunted, she made a show of taking Owen Horner’s picture instead, posing him directly in front of the canvas while he held up a trowel and smiled charismatically. The decision worked like a charm. Before long, Lamb had completely changed face, demanding that at least one photograph of him and his crew be taken from within the site, lest the public mistakenly attribute the find to his reprehensible rival.
Charlie made a point of finding himself out of the frame whenever the tripod went up, just in case he might be recognized by any of the Chronicle’s readers in New Fiddleham. By noon, Nellie had already gone through most of her photo plates and taken statements from everyone who would give her an interview. In her energetic presence, Owen Horner became even more resolved to stay near the discovery, which left Lewis Lamb perpetually on edge. The whole affair was beginning to feel like a carnival.
No progress had been made toward finding justice for the bloodless bodies, the missing tooth remained missing, and the horror in the forest was proving to be equally perplexing. For another day and a half, I worked closely with Jackaby, jotting details in my notebook as he scoured the forest and hunted for anything we’d missed. After one especially long afternoon of pushing through underbrush and hopping over trickling creeks, he finally caught a trail.
The tracks in the soft dirt had three sharp toes, but they were twice the size of the ones we’d seen in the bloody clearing. I lost sight of them as I tried to keep up with my employer, but Jackaby followed a trail of a different sort. He felt the air gently with his fingers, as if strumming an imaginary harp. When he caught on to whatever invisible thread he seemed to be looking for, he was off like a shot.
The trail wound through the woods for half a mile, leading eventually to another farm. We emerged from the wilderness on the far side, but I recognized it as the drab beige building where we had met Mrs. Pendleton. I saw no clear footprints as we stepped out of the thick forest and into open land, but I noticed that the underbrush had been trampled and branches higher than my shoulder had been snapped back.
I knocked on the door while Jackaby hung back, scanning the property. I knocked again, but there were no signs of life within the house. Soon Jackaby grew impatient and gestured for me to follow. We slid around back to a field where half a dozen sheep were huddled close together near the barn. The creatures did not bleat or shuffle aimlessly about, but kept in a tight knot and trembled skittishly, even for sheep.
“What do you suppose . . . ?” I began, but Jackaby pointed to something out in the middle of the pasture. The space was flat, save for a lone elm tree in the center and a small heap of something in between. From where we were, it looked like a pile of laundry had fallen from the line—except there was no clothesline in the field. I swallowed. My veins turned to lead. “Is that Mrs. Pendleton?”
We stepped warily into the field. As we approached, Toby uncurled himself from the woman’s side and paced between us and his fallen mistress, whimpering desperately. “Is she—?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the question. I already knew the answer.
“She’s been dead for some time now,” Jackaby confirmed with grim certainty. “Several hours, at least.” Toby circled the body miserably, his big brown eyes pleading up at us.
I stood over the body. Her hair was tied back in a practical braid, and her skin was unnaturally wan. She wore a simple white dress marred by three broad, wet ribbons of red cutting diagonally from her neck down across her chest like a macabre sash. She was still clutching the wide-barreled rifle. Jackaby leaned down and closed the woman’s eyes gently. Toby whined plaintively, and I knelt to comfort him.
“Someone should . . .” My voice failed me, and it took me a moment to find it again. “Someone should tell her husband.”
“He knows,” said Jackaby from behind me. He was walking toward the shade of the elm, where another figure lay in the shadows. “It appears Mr. Pendleton favored a pair of pistols. He met with the same end as his wife. They made their last stand together.”