“Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain, sir. I’ve seen bodies before, and this was definitely a body!”
Paul closed his eyes and counted to ten. It was his ill fortune to be cursed with a stupid assistant.
“The dog pack?”
Bailey nodded.
“How bad?”
“As bad as can be, sir. Parts all over the forest floor. A leg here, an arm there—”
“Very well, Bailey. No need to go into such grim detail. Any idea who it might be?”
“Didn’t I say, sir? Oh, sorry. It was a female this time. Looks like it might have been one of them gypsies that was camped on Sir Henry’s land.”
Sir Henry Fortescue-Smythe had been dead these past fifteen years and more, and his son Bertie—a fool if Vaughan had ever encountered one—had taken over the baronetcy, but still everyone referred to Greenbriers as Sir Henry’s land. If it had belonged to Paul, he’d have seen that righted immediately.