"Who did you say this was?" Nicholas Skeres grunted, heaved and shuffled backwards another three steps.
"Does it matter?" Robert Poley, carrying the feet, had an easier time of it. "It looks like him, that's what matters."
"Only if you squint your eyes." Ingram Frizer held the door open, his lockpicks still clutched in a sweaty hand. "Mrs. Bull will be out until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Plenty of time to make it look like a drunken brawl got out of hand."
"Let's hope so." Skeres got as far as the fireplace and let the body slump. "Did you have to do him through the eye, though? I've seen my fair share of dead men – aya, and rotting corpses, too – but this one gives me the willies. He looks to be seeing right into me' soul, so he does."
"He must have damned good eyesight then," Poley grinned and thumped his friend on the arm. "You bargained away your soul for an ale at that place in Dunkley."
Skeres laughed. "How could I not? The wench was as comely as a barrel full of whiskey."
"Aye, if it's been packed with salt." Frizer slid his blade into the corpse's eye. "Right," he said, standing up and overturning a table. "Skeres, you throw a few chairs about while Poley runs for the Watch." He stood over the anonymous corpse. "Poor Marlowe had one too many an' picked a fight with me."
Skeres nodded. "There're plenty who'll be pleased by that."