Shadow of the Raven by Tessa Harris Page A

on horseback, dipping low under overhanging branches, until eventually they left behind them the coupe full of squat, coppiced hazel and entered the thicker forest. Walking over to a deep depression in the ground, scantily lined with leaves, the workman pointed to the steep-sided pit.
    â€œHere.”
    Thomas dismounted and skirted the hole. He recalled that Sir Theodisius had told him that the horse had stumbled into a pit before the murder. It was not much deeper than a man’s waist, but judging by the fresh spade marks at its sides, it had been quite recently dug out.
    â€œAnd where did the surveyor fall?” he asked. He glanced at the man, but seeing his reaction, it was obviously a question too far. The charcoal burner shook his head vigorously.
    â€œI dunno,” came the quick reply. “Near,” was all he would say.
    â€œYes,” said Thomas with a knowing nod. For the woodsman to pinpoint the exact spot would be to incriminate himself. “Thank you. You have been most helpful, Mr. . . .”
    â€œGodson. Zeb Godson,” came the reply. “But folk call me Black Zeb.”
    Again Thomas smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Godson,” he said. “I shall find my own way back.”
    The charcoal burner needed no further encouragement to leave. He disappeared into the trees within seconds, leaving Thomas alone, deep in the woods. He knew the exact site of the murder would be within a radius of a few yards, so he tethered his horse and began pacing along the track that led away from the deep pit. All the while he kept his eyes trained on the ground, following a set of recent hoofprints.
    Within seconds, he arrived at what he knew must be the place. Several flies had discovered a cache of blood on top of the leaves, a thick dried pool of dark red, barely discernible among the russets and gold. Thomas crouched down. A small fragment of brown material fluttered among the rest of the leaves, its edges jagged and ripped. Thomas picked it up. It was fustian. His mind flashed to poor Mr. Turgoose’s frock coat, torn at the pocket. It was easy to see where he had fallen and lain for a moment or two in this woodland grave. There were gouge marks in the mud where the leaves had been disturbed and the deadweight of his body must have been dragged out and heaved onto the horse.
    Thomas looked about him. The clearing was small and surrounded by thick bushes, many of them evergreen. It would be easy for men to lie in wait here, unseen and ready to pounce. He pushed his way into the thick undergrowth, looking for signs, footprints in the mud, scraps of clothing, any clues left behind by Mr. Turgoose’s attacker, or attackers. Despite his best efforts, he found nothing and decided to return to his horse. It was just as he put his foot in the stirrup and grabbed hold of the saddle to heave himself up that he noticed his right sleeve. It was covered in what appeared to be black dust. He inspected it more closely but did not brush it off. He dismounted and returned to the bushes from whence he had just come. Peering at the waxy leaves of a large holly bush, his eyes scanned the foliage, looking for something out of the ordinary. It was then he spotted it: some type of blight, he thought at first. When he touched what appeared to be the black mold and rubbed it between his forefinger and thumb, however, he was not so sure. He needed to take a sample.
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    Meanwhile, less than half a mile away, Maggie Cuthbert, or Mad Maggie as most people called her, sat in her tumbledown cottage nestled among the beeches. Although she was a cunning woman, gifted with certain powers, or so she said, she had not needed any shew stones to tell her that something was wrong in the woods the afternoon the surveyor was killed.
    For as long as anyone could remember, she’d hawked her herbal remedies and her hag stones in Brandwick. For the soothing of stomachache, Brandwick belly as it was known, her lavender water was