17th August, 1895 — The house, Pennyworth
Aubrey was settled in by now – well, as settled in as he imagined he would ever be. The room was more comfortable than any he’d had before (in spite of its persistent cobwebs in the corner and the slightly creaky bed, and the strange things he had found left stashed in odd places, like under the mattress). The house was fine. Dorset seemed a decent enough lad. The problem, probably, was still Aubrey – he was not sure if he would ever be comfortable in his own skin.
He had woken up early, stiff in his body from having slept under his bed, rather than in it. He had shuffled downstairs, intending on being quiet and not disturbing the household, only – Dorset was down here, slumped in a chair. Aubrey stole a glance or two, not judging, just – a little concerned. Didn’t he have a bedroom too? Was he asleep, or was he dead? See, was he breathing? He seemed very still. And his chief constable had only been killed the other week, so maybe Dorset wasn’t quite right. Or what if he had been injured on his shift, and subsequently snuffed it in his sleep?
Aubrey went to the breadbox, and nibbled on a slice from the loaf as he considered what to do. He tried to bang around a bit in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers to see if Dorset would stir. No luck yet, so Aubrey sat down in another chair, brow furrowed, tearing off the crusts of his bread and chewing on them, as he watched quietly, hopefully, for some sign of life. He didn’t want to disturb him – but he really didn’t want to deal with a dead body this morning. He didn’t know how to deal with dead bodies, generally.
He had woken up early, stiff in his body from having slept under his bed, rather than in it. He had shuffled downstairs, intending on being quiet and not disturbing the household, only – Dorset was down here, slumped in a chair. Aubrey stole a glance or two, not judging, just – a little concerned. Didn’t he have a bedroom too? Was he asleep, or was he dead? See, was he breathing? He seemed very still. And his chief constable had only been killed the other week, so maybe Dorset wasn’t quite right. Or what if he had been injured on his shift, and subsequently snuffed it in his sleep?
Aubrey went to the breadbox, and nibbled on a slice from the loaf as he considered what to do. He tried to bang around a bit in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers to see if Dorset would stir. No luck yet, so Aubrey sat down in another chair, brow furrowed, tearing off the crusts of his bread and chewing on them, as he watched quietly, hopefully, for some sign of life. He didn’t want to disturb him – but he really didn’t want to deal with a dead body this morning. He didn’t know how to deal with dead bodies, generally.
Formerly known as Davis,