"Looks quiet as a tomb." "He's probably still sleeping, my lord. Jonathan Knill said he'd heard Pascoe was working the last core at Great Work mine, so he wouldn't have come home until after dawn." "I'm surprised the bastard was able to find work at all," Donovan said tightly as he dismounted and left Samson to nibble at the sparse grass alongside the muddy road. And as a bloody mine captain no less. Gilbert had brought the astonishing news this morning, though Great Work in neighboring Breage parish was so huge that there were a dozen such men overseeing hundreds of tinners. Jack Pascoe ranked the lowest of them all. To Donovan the man was just that, the lowest of filth. If he discovered Jack Pascoe had had anything to do with those pilchard barrels yesterday, bearing some murderous grudge against Corisande . . . "All right, Gilbert, let's get on with it," Donovan said in a terse whisper as Henry crept along in his wake, the agent's eyes round and apprehensive. Henry's eyes grew even rounder when Donovan pulled a pistol from inside his greatcoat.
