Lady Crewe stood in the hallway with the detective, looking in disdain at the corpse beneath her feet.
The detective had explained everything: that it had been there for about a week, that it was a knife killing, that the victim was indeed her husband.
But she knew all of this: the maggots oozing from its eyes told her that it had been a while since the poor fellow died and she had only left Tuesday last, the sharp point of the knife poking through its blood-stained waistcoat proved perfectly that it was a blade that killed him, and the crest on the neck of the thing’s shirt proved that it had once been her husband.

It wasn’t her husband now, though. She had never much liked him, anyway. Always huffing and grunting above her, the Lord getting all he needed without giving the Lady any pleasure of any sort. Not that she needed it.

Lady Crewe wasn’t surprised to find her husband dead: there weren’t many who enjoyed his company. The only thing that surprised her was that she didn’t get to do it herself.