The word ‘stable’ was probably a misnomer, it was more like a hut, thrown together with whatever material came to hand: slabs of bark, corrugated iron, old wire, beaten tins and crooked beams. Although the floor had been cleared and swept, the scent of horse and a miasma of dust hung in the air. The sickly odour of death clung, like the clouds of interested flies, over the still figure lying on a trestle table in the centre of the room. Bowen’s dusty boots protruded from beneath the torn and stained sheet that had been thrown over the body.

Bowen had been dead over twelve hours and Maidment swallowed as he turned down the sheet to inspect the face of the corpse. ‘It’s Bowen,’ he said in a dispassionate voice.

Russell gave the mottled face a cursory glance, nodded and hurried outside, clutching his handkerchief to his mouth. Caleb and Maidment looked at each other as the sound of the magistrate losing his lunch drifted in through the rough walls.

‘Enough light, doc?’ Maidment asked.

Caleb nodded. ‘There’s a couple of hours of daylight left.’ And he wanted to get the grim task over with. He gestured to the young Buneep constable. ‘Are you up to helping me, Brown?’

The young man turned pale then flushed. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Sit in a corner and take notes,’ Caleb said. ‘Can you manage that?’

‘I think so.’ The man sounded dubious.

Caleb fixed him with a hard gaze. ‘If you faint, I can’t help you.’

Brown shook his head. ‘I’m not squeamish, sir. My father’s a butcher, but I’ve not seen a person—’ He swallowed and nodded. ‘I’ll be fine, doctor.’

‘Good. You can start by drawing me a few buckets of water, and I’ll need a couple of empty pans of some sort.’

Brown nodded and left the room with the haste of someone glad to have an excuse not to be there. He may not be squeamish but he probably appreciated the distinction between the butchering of an animal for food and the methodical dissection of a human being.

Caleb turned to Maidment and Russell, who had rejoined them, his face pale and moist. ‘Constable Brown and I will manage just fine—I don’t need either of you. I suggest you deal with the statements and see those folk on their way before you have a riot.’

Alone with the corpse, Caleb blew out a breath. He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and tied on a heavy leather farrier’s apron he found hanging on a hook in a shadowy corner. He unpacked the bag he had brought with him, laying out the surgeon’s instruments on a bench. They were Bowen’s, not his own fine set. No need to boil them, he thought grimly.

‘Well, my friend,’ he said aloud. ‘Are you going to tell me what killed you?’