Chapter 39 Who Killed the Mockingbird?
The outskirts of London at night, a bright moon hung in the sky, adorned with clouds as thin as gossamer. Through the thick gaps in the woods, it scattered light upon the earth.
The lonely spire of the woodland church stood erect, its gothic pinnacles sharp as swords, as if they were about to pierce the heart of the moon.
At midnight, as the darkness deepened, it was the time when all things fell into dream.
Yet not far from the church, in the graveyard, there was a busy shadow.
He held a shovel in his hands, with a sack slung over his back.
With every shovel and dig, sweat poured down like rain.
He worked while he smiled to himself, muttering under his breath.
"Acheson and Ackman, those idiots, they actually believed when I said I was going home to visit family.
Without those two to split the profits, this grave site that has yet to be robbed is all mine. The risk of murdering is still too high. Where does that compare to the steady business of digging graves?