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“So he was likely either dead or unconscious when he fell,” Rayley said to Trevor as he
walked back. Trevor merely nodded, blinking the sweat from his eyes. The strain of holding Tom on
the rope was taking its toll, but Rayley did not bother offering to spell him. They both knew that if
Trevor had grown tired with the effort, it would likely defeat Rayley within minutes. There was no
need to further contribute to the ever-growing body count of Cawnpore.
“Or that’s what the rockslide was for,” Seal offered, struggling to control his own
breath. “A distraction. Noise to cover the shouts.”
Rayley shook his head. “A distraction, surely, but if the murderer was trying to use a
rockslide to obscure his victim’s cries for help, the timing would have had to be perfect. Too
perfect. And Morass looks so much at peace that I don’t think he struggled at all. No kicking or
shouting, no efforts to climb, which would have likely only made him drop farther. Tom is probably
right. He went into the well either heavily drugged or already dead.”
Trevor nodded, and shifted the rope slightly in his hands.
Down below, Davy’s search was proving more fruitful than Tom’s, for he had found a
drinking glass clutched in Morass’s chubby hand. An odd thing in itself, for any man caught in the act
of falling would likely release whatever he held in an instinctive effort to try and stop himself.
Morass, however, had clutched his beer glass to the bitter end and when Davy carefully loosened it
from his grip and held it to the light above, he could see that the glass bore fingerprints. Impossible
to verify until he was able to dust the glass in a more suitable setting, but even in this preliminary
perusal, Davy could see that there were the prints you would expect – the full beefy thumb and fingers
of Morass himself, placed precisely where a drinker would have put them – and also another set.
Smaller, lighter, made by someone who had touched the glass but likely not gripped it.
“Good work, man,” Davy murmured, using his tongs to carefully wrap the glass in a
cotton cloth.
“Thank you,” Tom murmured back in erroneous reply. “And see here, there’s something
else in his pocket.”
“What’s that?” Rayley called from above.
“He was holding a glass when he fell,” Tom called back. “And there are a hundred
pounds in the inner pocket of his jacket. Rather much for a servant of the Raj, wouldn’t you say?”
“Rather much indeed,” muttered Seal, now shifting the rope which was sustaining Davy.
He too was showing signs of strain – not merely the weight of the rope, but also the dawning
knowledge that his rival had most likely died because he had learned something that Seal had not.
“Drop the other rope,” Tom called.
Rayley tossed the end of a third rope down the well which Davy and Tom tied to
Morass’s belt and then looped around his arms and legs and tied again. They signaled when the task
was done and then the others hauled them up. It was an inelegant process, smacking both men against
the stone wall of the well at several points, but Davy valiantly held on to the drinking glass, which he
was already coming to regard as Morass’s final legacy to the case. After Tom and Davy had been
hauled over the side of the well, they both sat for a moment on the ground, catching their breath and
rubbing their wounds. Then they rose and, in silence, all five men turned their dwindling collective
strength to reeling in Morass. When he too was back on the adobe bricks of the courtyard, they all
dropped down to their bums and simply sat, gasping for air. Rayley brought a canteen which was
passed around, and finally Tom and Davy began picking at their rope harnesses.
“So what do we have?” gasped Trevor.
“He went into the well far easier than he came out,” Tom replied. “Dead when he fell,