Matthew didn’t know what else to say, so he just sat there like a frog on a log and waited.

“Those were the days,” said the sheriff of Whistler Green. “Dangerous days, to be sure. I was not married then. I wouldn’t have put a wife through that. When I married, I settled down. I started out as a lawyer in London, actually. But I wanted action, and lawyering … well, not so much action. Intrigue, yes, but not what I desired. An interesting thing though, Matthew—if I may call you Matthew?—is that as sheriff of a small town, I find both intrigue and action. Oh you wouldn’t believe what goes on in a small town.”

“I think I would,” said Matthew. “I live in New York. That’s in the colonies.”

“Yes,” Lancer replied, and his gaze for the moment was colder than the December night. “I do know where New York is, son.”

“I meant no offense.”

“None taken.” He shrugged and went back to smoking. “Very interesting work, being a sheriff. A cry in the night from an empty house … a runaway horse with a dead man roped to it … a scarecrow in a field that turns out to be a bit more gruesome than straw … a man dressed as a jester who has lost his memory but cannot cease laughing … a woman who continually dreams a warlock has commanded her to kill the sheriff of Whistler Green, or her own family will die … very interesting work. Now, as for your work … and your being here with the other man who has suffered the broken ribs, and you with the bullet wound and all bruised up, and the biggest and most ornate coach I have ever seen, and one door torn off it, and a loaded pistol lying in the baggage compartment, and dried blood and what I believe to be brain matter stuck up on the back of the coach, and this story about a Bristol murderer that I think is complete … how shall I put it politely? … bull figs, and I thought that immediately upon hearing it from Doctor Clark … well … you understand my position.”

Matthew swallowed hard. Merda’s second pistol, forgotten in the baggage compartment? And Merda’s brain matter, splattered there by Matthew’s shot?

“Anything to say?” the sheriff asked, behind a cloud of smoke.

Matthew was at a loss, but something came out. “Hudson Greathouse is my friend.”

Smoke spun slowly around Lancer’s head.

“If I—we—don’t get to where we’re going, Hudson will be in danger. He is in danger now. I can’t … and I won’t … tell you anything more.”

The words were spoken quietly: “Hudson’s in Bristol?”

“No, not Bristol. That’s not our destination.”

A long pause followed. Then: “Do you need help?”