Glancing back, he saw Penny, dismounted, tying the reins of both horses to a tree. Looking back at the cottage, he put out a hand, pushed the door wide, simultaneously stepping to the side. The door swung inward, almost fully open before it banged on something wooden.
No other sound came from within.
Charles glanced inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness, then he saw a form slumped unmoving on the floor.
He swore, scanned with his senses one last time, but there was no one else there, then stepped to the doorway. The smell told him what lay in the cottage wasn’t going to be a pretty sight. He sensed Penny drawing nearer. “Don’t come any closer—you don’t need to see this.”
“What?” Then, more weakly, “Is he dead?”
No point pretending. “Yes.”
He saw tinder and a candle on a rough wooden table. Hauling in a breath, he held it, then stepped over the threshold. The wick caught, flared; he shielded the flame until it was steady, then he lifted the candle and looked.
His senses hadn’t lied.
He heard Penny’s sharp, shocked gasp, heard her quit the doorway, slumping back against the cottage wall. His gaze locked on the body strewn like a broken puppet on the rough plank floor, he moved closer, holding the candle up so he could better see.
After a moment, he hunkered down, through narrowed eyes studied the young man’s face.
“What happened?”
He glanced at the doorway, saw Penny clutching the jamb, looking in.
“Is it Gimby?” she asked.
He looked again at the face. “I assume so—from what the old man told us, he’s the right age and build.”
Putting out a hand, he unfurled one of the youth’s slack, crumpled hands, and found the calluses and ridges marking him as one who earned his living from the sea. “Yes,” he said. “It’s Gimby Smollet.”
Again his gaze went to the youth’s face, noting the ugly weals and bruises. He recognized the pattern, could predict where on the youth’s body other brusies would be found—over his kidneys, covering his lower ribs, most of which would be broken. His hands and fingers had been methodically smashed, repeatedly, over some time, hours at least.
Someone had wanted information from Gimby, information Gimby either had refused to give or hadn’t known to give. He’d been beaten until his interrogator had been sure there was no more to learn, then Gimby had been dispatched, his throat cut with, it seemed, a single stroke.
Charles rose, his gaze going to Penny. “There’s nothing we can do, other than inform the authorities.”
Waving her back, he joined her, pulling the door closed on the dead youth, careful to keep buried all signs of the deep unease flooding him.
“He was murdered, wasn’t he?” Penny said. “How long ago?”
A good question. “At least yesterday, possibly the day before.”
She swallowed; her voice was thready. “After we started asking questions.”
He reached for her hand, gripped hard. “That may have nothing to do with it.”
She glanced at him; he saw in her eyes that she believed that no more than he. At least she didn’t look to be heading for hysterics.
“What now? Who should we tell?”
He paused, considering. “Culver’s the local magistrate—I’ll ride over and inform him first thing in the morning. There’s no sense in rousing him and his staff at this hour—there’s nothing anyone can do now that won’t be better done in daylight.” He looked at Penny, caught her eye. “Incidentally, you aren’t here.”
Her lips tightened, but she nodded. She glanced back at the cottage. “So we just leave him?”
He squeezed her hand again. “He’s not really there.” He drew in a breath, filling his lungs with cleaner air, noting the faint breeze rising off the estuary. “Before we go, I want to look at his boats.”
Leaving that to the morning was a risk he was no longer prepared to take. Someone else was there, someone with training similar to his own.
Someone with a background similar to his own.