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Not a squeak or mumble

“Trent cannot hear you” Mr Bradley shoved her in the back, sending her crashing into the drawing rooant voice again”

Lord, no!

“What have you done?” Her knees buckled, and she gripped the doorfraht “Where is he?”

“Now that’s a question no one here can answer” His cryptic words grated “Some believe in heaven Some believe in hell Some believe—”

His taunting coround when she spotted so room floor, a coarse blanket thrown over their head and body so one did not have to see the cold, glassy stare of death

The sight chilled her blood Cut her to the bone

Lawrence!

It took effort not to collapse into a heap, thump the wooden boards and wail at the unfairness of it all Instead, she raced forward and dropped to her knees next to the lifeless forer burst to life in her chest Bile burned in her throat She tore off the blanket, rolled the lifeless man onto his back and stared at his ashen face

Not Lawrence

Oh, praise the saints!

John Layton

The blanket had covered undy blood, and the polished handle of the knife protruding from Mr Layton’s chest

Verity came slowly to her feet and turned to the man who surveyed the scene with a look of amused detachment “You killed him” It was a statement, not a question “Somehow you killed Mr Wincote, too”

Was he ridding the world of all those who knew his secret?