“I shouldn’t burden a stranger with my troubles. It was wrong of me.”
Rathe leaned in closely to her, not so much intimidating as persuasive. “Tell me.”
He felt a slight tremble in her thin fingers as they touched his arm once more. Their nervous shuddering seemed to him to complement the hesitancy of her voice when she replied, so softly he had to strain to hear her.
“Murder.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“My husband wants me dead, Mr Rathe.” She pleaded with her eyes for his belief. “He wants to murder me… ”
* * *
Rathe found Cook in the garden, sitting on a small bench, staring into a fish pond. The water rippled gently in the night breeze, illuminated by the small lights which lined the perimeter of the pond. As he approached, Rathe could see the slivers of silver and gold flitting throug
