The Goat’s Head
It was 3am and the clubs were empty. In the Goat’s Head the landlord was bedding down for the night, but there was a rumbling in his belly that would not let him sleep comfortably.
Indigestion? A bout of food poisoning from the 13 Bay D’Espoire oysters he’d consumed that night on an extravagant binge of shellfish?
Or was it, perhaps, the knowledge that he had, knowingly, with malice and in full control of his faculties, brutally slain his wife of a dozen years and encased her remains in a real ale cask in the cellar?
A loud and violent fart confirmed it was just indigestion after all.