Copper Script

by K.J. Charles

He was here because Wildsmith’s incisive gift had cut through to a truth, and he had to face that. He took a deep breath. “If what you say is true, a number of other things make sense. It forms a picture. A damned ugly picture, but a coherent one.” “Is this man, number seven, clever?” “Yes.” “Dangerous?” “Perhaps,” Aaron said, and had to add, “Yes.” “Hell and the devil,” Wildsmith said. “So what are you going to do?” Aaron knocked back a mouthful of gin. It was neat, oily, harsh on his throat. He never drank neat gin. “I’m going to look into it. There’s nothing else to do, is there? I can’t ignore it. He’s in a position to do an astonishing amount of harm.” “Not just a constable then?” “Don’t ask any more. I mean that. I’ve said too much.” “Which is not your besetting sin,” Wildsmith said. “You came here because you needed to talk to someone. If you want to keep doing that, you can.” Aaron’s throat hurt, in the clenched way that suggested he was getting a cold, or going to cry, except he hadn’t cried in a long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’d be best off staying entirely out of this.” “And what about you? Are you going to bring anyone else in? Tell anyone at work what’s happening?” “I don’t know it’s happening. That’s the damned thing. I’ll have to prove it from scratch, and looking into him is an unappealing prospect. Even raising it, if it gets back to him— Oh God, this is a nightmare.” “I’m sorry to have dropped this on you.” “Not your fault.” Wildsmith ex...

“Hell and the devil,”