“Any sign he was robbed, Mr. Jones?” Locke took out his own handkerchief and a small bottle. He shook several drops from this onto the cloth and pressed it to his nose in a practiced manner. Oil of wintergreen; the sharp smell prickled the hairs inside Jamie’s own nose, and a good thing, too. The stranger was ripe.

“Well, yes,” said the constable, with a touch of impatience. “If empty pockets and a cracked skull are sign enough for you.”

Locke plucked the damp handkerchief off the man’s face with two fingers and set it aside. Jamie felt his wame clench and rise.

The man had a shocking great wound in the side of his head, but that wasn’t what was making the sweat break out in a rush on Jamie’s body.

“You know this man, Mr. Fraser?” Locke had noticed his reaction.

“No, sir,” he said. His lips felt stiff, as though someone had hit him in the mouth. The man was strange to him, but the look of him was not. Not tall, but large, a heavy-boned man who had run to fat, his bloated stomach a great round swelling under his half-buttoned breeches, tapering down to too-small feet that had flattened and spread under the weight they were required to bear and burst the seams of the man’s worn shoes.

He’d seen those feet and those bursten shoon before—and likewise the dead, broad face, hairy jaw slack and eyes half open, dull and sticky under their lids. Seen it covered with dirt as he filled in the grave, shoveling fast lest he vomit again.

LOCKE, IN HIS office as coroner, told the constable to go and inquire of the tavern’s patrons and bring any potential witnesses to view—and hopefully identify—the body.

Jones shifted his weight, restive. “Whoever robbed him’s long gone. Think he must have been in that alley for two, three days at least, from the smell.”

“Tell me about it in the morning, Mr. Jones,” Locke said, and shrugged his coat closer. It was perishing in the shed, and his voice rose in a white cloud. Jamie felt the chill in the aching bones of his maimed right hand and closed it into a fist, which he thrust into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“Do ye have such occurrences often?” he asked Locke as they made their way back through the dark streets.

“More often than I’d like,” Locke replied grimly. “And more often than used to be the case.”

“War does bring out the worst in folk.” He hadn’t meant it as a joke, and Locke didn’t take it as one—merely nodded. He closed the door of the shed behind them and they walked in silence up the street.