“Murder,” came a faint male voice at her shoulder.
She bit back a shriek and spun around. Dead Mr. Bothwick. Just what she needed to make a bad situation worse.
“Go away.” She swiped at him and missed.
He floated above the body to peer into the Runner’s face. “I don’t recognize him.”
“I should think not. He’s from Town.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick cast her a withering glance. “You aren’t the only one who’s ever been to London. Who is this chap, then, Miss Society? An ex-paramour?”
Susan’s teeth clenched. “If you must know, he’s a Bow Street Runner.”
“Was,” Dead Mr. Bothwick corrected drolly. “Whoever he was.”
“Insufferable plebian,” she muttered, irritated at herself for allowing him to goad her. “Have some respect. Can’t you see he’s dead?” She dropped back to her knees. “I never dreamed...”
Dead Mr. Bothwick dropped to face level, frowning at her curiously. “You mean... he truly is a Runner?”
She glared at him. “That’s what I said.”
“Quick! Search his pockets!”
“Why?”
“To see why he’s here, of course. We need clues.”
“I know why he’s here.” Shame clawed at her stomach. “I summoned him.”
“Yousummonedhim?”
She stared guiltily at the lifeless form and nodded. “For all the good it did either of us.”
Dead Mr. Bothwick hovered over the corpse. “Search his pockets anyway.”
“There aren’t any clues to find,” she burst out in frustration. “My letter was purposefully vague. I meant to explain everything once he arrived.”
“Explain everything about what?”
“A family matter.”
“Now youhaveto search his pockets.”
She tried to ignore him, but her cursed curiosity won out. “Why?”
Dead Mr. Bothwick stared at her. “I can’t speak to how special you are back in London, Miss Stanton, but do you really think a Runner would come all the way to Bournemouth after receiving a ‘vague’ note from a young girl with ‘family matters’?”
Susan matched his stare. Put that way... No. It didn’t seem likely. In fact, after the experiences of the past week, the Runner would’ve been of little help with regard to the imprisoned Lady Emeline even if he had witnessed the wretchedness of the situation firsthand.
Then whywashe here?
She cast a considering glance at the ghost fluttering on the other side of the body. How many people knew that Dead Mr. Bothwick was no longer among the living? His brother, for one. And her. But she’d heard no other mention. Was the Runner investigating the ghost’s murder? Or Red’s? Perhaps the Runner’s visit had nothing to do with murder at all. (Until his own, of course.) Perhaps he wasn’t investigating someone,but someones.Her mind flashed back to the coin she’d found in Dead Mr. Bothwick’s living room.
Pirates.
She returned her gaze to the prone lawman without speaking her thoughts aloud. She didn’t know how involved Dead Mr. Bothwick might be with whatever schemes were afoot. But he was right about one thing: She needed to know more. She touched the blood-soaked waistcoat, then yanked her gloved hand back as if his chest were made of hot coals. What if touching him brought ghostly visions of his traumatic demise?
“What happened?” Dead Mr. Bothwick jerked backward. “What is it?”
