“Oh,” said Greta. “That’s the tannebaum. It’s a custom in the country of my birth to bring a fir tree in and decorate it this time of year. Here you would call it a Christmas tree.”

“A tree in the house?” Elizabeth went on. “How unusual! It’s very pretty, though.”

“I like the good cheer it brings,” said Greta. “Now, if you’d care for some soup? And those who wish to visit the chamberpot may do so as well.” She motioned for them to follow.

Julian drew aside a window curtain to check outside and saw Oliver approaching through the swirl of snow. Matthew observed Firebaugh’s lip curl as the doctor stood beside Elizabeth and regarded the fir tree. “Most ridiculous thing I have ever seen,” he said. “A tree in a house! That’ll never catch on! As equally ridiculous as you taking sides against me with those two. Have you completely lost your senses?”

“You’re simply asking for more injury,” Elizabeth answered quietly, as the kitchen Greta had retired to was not so far distant. “Where could you go, even if you did manage to get away … which you cannot? Bide your time, doctor. That’s all I can say.”

“And this betrayal is because you and Corbett were in the same gang? I’m sure when Samson catches up to us he’ll like to hear that explanation.”

“Not betrayal. Common sense, which you seem to have left with your ear in the snow.”

The door opened and Oliver Autrey entered. “Whew!” he said, stalking past the others to the hearth to warm himself. “A cold night ahead, mark it! Well, the horses are taken care of, so that’s not to worry.” He shrugged off his coat and removed his cap. Matthew thought he was probably a few years older than his wife, and he also was as gap-toothed as the missus. But he had a friendly, heavily-jowled face and from the very front of his liver-spotted scalp there curled a single tuft of white hair like a tiny angel’s wing. He took the measure of Firebaugh’s wounds again. “Trimmin’ your eyebrows and cleanin’ your ears with a blade,” he said with narrowed and serious eyes, “is not the smartest thing to do.”

Greta returned to the room, her face expressionless. “Ollie, they have given me the pferdefedern story. It is best not to ask questions of these people, and whatever they are up to we are not wishing to know. Come along now, the soup’s ready.” She turned away, a stately presence in the little homey cottage.

“What did that word mean?” Matthew asked, and with a lift of his furrowed forehead that made the angel’s wing dance Autrey said, “Horsefeathers.”