He saw pure terror in Faithful Unto Death’s eyes. “You remember her, Hervey?”

Faithful Unto Death nodded.

“I didn’t hear you, Reverend.”

“Yes.”

Devorax kept his voice loud, kept it slow. “My name, Reverend, is not Barlow. Nor do I work for that rat-hole you call Parliament. My name is Christopher Aretine. Does that mean anything to you, Reverend? Christopher Aretine?”

Hervey’s pale face shook. His Adam’s apple shot up and down. “No.”

Devorax whipped round on Goodwife, the blade pointing at her. “Christopher Aretine! Do you know the name?”

She shook her head. Her eyes watched him. He knew she had heard. Devorax strolled back to the table and perched himself on the corner. He tapped the knife blade into his palm. “Where was her witch mark, Reverend?”

Faithful Unto Death Hervey stared at the grim face. He did not understand what was happening, but the stench of a horrid danger was all about him. “On her belly, sir.”

“Her belly.” The knife blade still tapped into the palm. The steel edge was eighteen inches long. “Show me on the excuse you have for a body, Reverend.”

“Sir?”

“Show me!” The blade moved like a snake striking, suddenly appearing before Hervey’s eyes.

Hervey moved his right hand slowly. He pointed to his solar plexus. “There, sir.”

“Bit high for her belly, Reverend. Did you search her breasts?”

Hervey was shaking with fear. He was not a brave man.

“I asked you, Reverend, if you searched her breasts.”

“Sir?”

“If you don’t answer me, scum, I’ll spit out an eyeball on this blade.”

“I did, sir! Yes, sir!”

“Why?”

“It is normal, sir, normal!”

“Explain it to me.” Devorax pulled the knife blade back. He had made the question conversational, almost reassuring.

Faithful Unto Death Hervey swallowed, his Adam’s apple going up and down while his right hand returned to his crotch. “The witch mark, sir, is a teat. One expects a teat in the area of the dugs.” He nodded vigorously, as if to confirm the truth of his statement.

Devorax smiled at him. He tossed the knife into the air so that the blade cartwheeled in the candlelight. The handle smacked back into his right hand. His eyes had not left Hervey. “What’s my name?”

“Aretine, sir. Christopher Aretine.”

“Good, good. Did you enjoy searching Dorcas Slythe’s breasts?”

“Sir?” Hervey’s fear flooded back. For a moment he had thought that he was turning the conversation into a reasonable course, now the torment was starting again.

“I asked if you enjoyed searching Dorcas Slythe’s breasts.”

“No, sir!”

The knife blade began to describe vague circles and figures of eight before Hervey’s eyes. “I think you did, Reverend. She’s very beautiful. Did you enjoy it?”

“No! I do a necessary task, sir. I search out God’s enemies, sir. One does not seek enjoyment!”

“Tell that to the whore downstairs. Did you stroke Dorcas Slythe’s breasts?”

“No!”

The knife blade was within an inch of Hervey’s right eye. Faithful Unto Death had put his head back, but he could see the glittering spark of light looming at his eyeball. Devorax’s voice was very soft. “I’ll give you one more chance, scum. Did you stroke her breasts?”