Christophor was slow to it, but the pieces did come together; the eldest Eder daughter, Louisa, was bedding Gregory. Someone well beneath her station.

‘Louisa,’ he said under his breath. The chef gave one last look to the door, and then nodded.

‘Wasn’t right, what happened to Jan. Just ’cos his night-brother went and did somethin’ silly.’

There was finally call for the notebook. When Christophor was alone in the room he wrote down the name and stared at it for a long while. He underlined it, slowly, deliberately.

‘If you are going to be of use, Alexsander, ask the questions I cannot,’ he said to himself, to me.

This I remembered clearly and distinctly, as was his intention. He was demanding to know more about Harriet, who was day-sister to Louisa. A day-sister he could never reach; but she might provide answers that were impossible at night. For some reason he did not want to question Louisa or Olesca directly. Perhaps that would jeopardise the investigation, or expose him somehow.

Either way, he was starting to understand but there was still more to know of the incident that had started this case, this hunt for a witch among the high and low of Drekenford. He now felt certain Gregory and Jan Harsson were sent so far away to reduce the risk of an Eder family scandal. But what spurred the witch to further punish the boy? For that, perhaps I could be some help.

27th October 1721

However, the world is not as open to a musician as it is a Special Inspector.

Especially a musician without patron or employment. Without a modest crowd of onlookers, even. I knew if I were to set myself in the square, at the fountain perhaps, and simply practise – practise, not play for an audience – I would be chased off on some pretence or another. How could it be that I suffered more from Christophor’s work than he did? And how then was I supposed to help with that very work?

I was without direction or purpose, a familiar state at least, but I knew one thing: I would not visit Marcus. I would not spend another day in a comfortable stupor, in good company and with easy distractions. I would not.

Unless, of course, it was done with purpose.

I didn’t recognise the woman waving at me from across the street. I would have sworn that before judge, mob, even God himself, but I waved back nonetheless. She was standing in front of a baker’s, a wicker basket in the crook of one arm and a slightly older woman at the other. She hurried over, all but dragging a less enthusiastic companion in her wake.

‘Mr Morden?’ the woman said, with a strong hint of doubt.

‘Good morning,’ I said, smiling to each in turn. ‘Have we met?’

‘Well, no, not really, but I recognised you. I know— Well, I mean to say our night-siblings have met. I’m sorry, this is really rather presumptuous, but I saw you and, well I did wonder, I—’