Harold stirred cranberry sauce into his grave, the scrape of his fork the only sound in the otherwise silent kitchen. That and his breathing. His companion didn't breathe but he could almost believe he could hear, if he strained hard enough, the ticking of her thoughts. "I had Mack Benton in here again when I got home from the shop."
"The farmer from next door? What did he want? Have his cows got loose again?"
"No." Harold stared at his plate. The cranberry sauce looked like rivulets of blood among the fatty globules of gravy. He pushed the plate away. Duck was never his favourite, anyway. "He took me to see his field. The sheep were all dead with their throats torn out."
"Don't look at me." Gillian held her hands up, palms outward. "Not guilty, your honour. If I wanted a sheep – which I don't, thanks to a growing herd of human donors – I'd just take the blood. I wouldn't rip the throats out."
"Did I accuse you?" Harold stood, transferring the sink for washing. "He thought it was dogs."
"And by dogs you mean—"
"Wolves, yes. Or one wolf in particular."
"Yes." Harold sighed. "Can't you keep your werewolf under control?"
Gillian shook her head. "Always quick to judge, Harold. It wasn't Felicia. She'd have taken one and eaten it. This was the work of someone else."
"Those two lads in Fulham Crescent. The students. One's a were-Labrador and the other's a were-Cairn Terrier."