Countess Volodymyrovna was the most infuriating woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet. When she ended up in a prison cell he would have the singular pleasure of saying: I told you so! His blood was boiling and he tried to distract himself before he burst a vein. The rag pillow was a puzzle that called for concentration. Yes, that would do the trick. He could turn his attention to the pillow. The two grave-diggers were busy digging a fresh grave. He wondered fleetingly if they would recognize him from last night, and concluded it was unlikely. He had been dressed as a vagrant and the night had been dark and thick with fog. By the time he’d leapt the fence they were running for their lives in the opposite direction. He affected an interested inflection. “Good morning,” he greeted genially. “Is this for another poor homeless girl?” Joff was the spokesperson. “No one as yet but winter is our busy season.” Dr Watson tut-tutted sympathetically. “My companion attended the funeral here yesterday.
