CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Aubrey basked in the moonlit courtyard, his face tilted toward the glow, eyes closed, fingers entwined on his belly, agreeably full from Rachel’s bolognaise. He appeared younger in the radiance, his skin illuminated.
“Cup o’ tea?” Rachel called from the kitchen in her best English accent.
He smirked without opening his eyes. “Sounds good.”
The kettle whistled and then she plunked the pot in the center of the table to steep.
“So, what’s happening?” he asked.
“Master Aldridge is on the slab.”
“Pre or post autopsy?”
“Pre.”
Aubrey leaned forward and turned the teapot three times with his finger. “An old trick I learned from my nana,” he said. “It’s the third one that does it.”
It was Rachel’s turn to smile.
“Why do you think the royal family was targeted for that
