“She may have been murdered, but it wasn’t Harry Pye who did it.” Bennet stood in front of his father’s desk, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

Silas felt impatience rise in him. Everyone else believed the land steward guilty. Why couldn’t his own son?

He sat forward and tapped on his desktop with a forefinger as if he could drill through the mahogany. “Hemlock killed her, same as the sheep. His carving was found by her corpse. The second carving, remember, discovered with these crimes.” Silas thrust his hands forward, palms upward. “What more do you want?”

“I know you hate Harry Pye, Father, but why would he leave his own carvings by the bodies? Why incriminate himself?”

“Mayhap the man is mad,” Thomas said quietly from the corner. Silas frowned at him, but Thomas was too intent on his brother to notice. “Pye’s mother was a slut, after all; perhaps he inherited her bad blood.”

Bennet looked pained. “Tom—”

“Don’t call me that!” Thomas said shrilly. “I’m your elder. I’m the heir. Give me the respect I deserve. You’re only a—”

“Shut up!” Silas roared.

Thomas shrank at the bellow. “But, Father—”

“No more!” Silas glared until his elder son flushed blotchily; then he sat back in the chair and turned his attention back to Bennet. “What would you have me do?”

Bennet shot an apologetic glance at Thomas, which the other ignored, before answering. “I don’t know.”

Ah, the first outward show of uncertainty. It was like balm to his soul. “I am the magistrate for this county. I must uphold the law as I see fit.”

“At least let me see him.”

“No.” Silas shook his head. “He’s a dangerous criminal. It would not be responsible of me to let you near him.”

Not until his men got a confession. The way Pye took a beating—absorbing blow after blow until he could no longer stand, until he staggered and fell, but still refused to talk—it might be several more days before he was broken. But break he would. And then Silas would hang him by the neck until dead, and no one, not the king nor God, would be able to gainsay him.

Aye, he could wait.

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Bennet was pacing agitatedly now. “I’ve known him since we were lads. He’s my—” He broke off and dismissed the sentence with a wave. “Just let me talk to him. Please.”

It had been a long, long while since the boy had begged. He should know by now that begging only gave the opponent ammunition.

“No.” Silas shook his head regretfully.

“He is still alive?”

Silas smiled. “Yes. Alive, but not particularly well.”

Bennet’s face paled. He stared at his father as if he would hit him, and Silas actually braced himself for a blow.

“Goddamn you,” Bennet whispered.

“He might indeed.”