Thief's Mark. Carla Neggers

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      “We’ve had nasty accidents on the farm,” Martin said. “Years ago a worker lost a finger. I can’t see how an accident this bloody and catastrophic could happen so close to the house. The police didn’t find blood inside the house, at least that I’m aware of. It can’t be just one of those things for a man to incur a cut that causes him to bleed to death.”

      “Oliver could have found him outside after he’d been cut, when it was too late to put pressure on the wound to do any good,” Colin said. “A cut brachial artery can be repaired.”

      “Death isn’t inevitable?”

      “It is if you don’t stop the bleeding and get help fast. I’m not a doctor and I can’t say what happened this morning.”

      Martin perked up. “Oliver is trained in martial arts. He might have known what to do in such a situation but was simply too late. If the man attacked him, Oliver’s martial arts training would have kicked in. He’d have defended himself, but not...” Martin went pale. “Not in such a grisly fashion.”

      Emma plucked a dried lobelia leaf from a pot and tossed it into the grass. “Do you have any idea when and where the injury to this man occurred?”

      Martin shook his head, squinting as if he was envisioning the scene. “I didn’t see a weapon—a sharp instrument or anything like that—but the cut must have occurred close to where Henrietta and I found him. I would think it happened moments before Ruthie, before Oliver...” Martin jerked his chin up. “You don’t think I killed this man, do you?”

      “Take us through your morning, if you would,” Emma said gently. “From when you woke up until the police arrived.”

      “Please sit, Agent Sharpe,” he said. “You two make me nervous enough as it is.”

      Emma smiled and complied, sitting next to Colin on the bench. He crossed his ankles and gave a slight smile, in a deliberate effort, she suspected, to look less threatening. Martin needed to relax and focus on the details of his morning, not on his audience.