the harness-maker boomed cheerily, coming out to greet Marc on the wooden walk in front of his shop. “We been expectin’ someone like yerself to come callin’, haven’t we, Sarah-Mae?” Sarah-Mae, as tiny as her husband was gargantuan, poked her bonneted pink face out from behind her better half. “I’m Phineas Kimble, harness-maker to three townships for twenty-two years.” He threw out a hand the size of a pig’s rump. He towered over Marc, who was himself almost six feet and accustomed to peering downward when he talked. “How do you do, sir,” Marc said. “I’m Lieutenant Edwards, and I’ve been asked by Governor Head to discover who committed the heinous murder of Councillor Langdon Moncreiff earlier today.” Kimble’s handshake was surprisingly gentle, the fingers as supple as the leather he worked for a living. “I don’t reckon the governor does too much askin’.” Kimble grinned. “Do you want to come in, Lieutenant Edwards?” Sarah-Mae said in a soft, musical voice.
