Edgar said, “Purloin My Liver.”
“I beg your pardon?” Annabel frowned and steered around the carcass of a sheep. Flies rose in a dark cloud.
“The village.” Edgar folded the map and gestured at the collection of thatched cottages. “Purloin My Liver. An old market town. Stop in that pub and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Annabel assented and parked off the road. As she stepped out into bright sunshine, she gazed at the signpost that hung from the side of the building. “Odd name for a pub!”
Edgar shook his head. “We’re in the sticks now. This is rural heritage.” He followed her gaze upwards. “The Plucked Eyeball? Sounds rather quaint to me. I like it.”
Annabel shrugged and followed him inside.
The bar was deserted and gloomy. The warped beams of the low ceiling forced them to crouch down to avoi
