If Channock had any idea where he was being led by this northern man, this stranger to his home, this Special Inspector who carried the King’s seal, he gave no indication until there could be no possible doubt. Perhaps he preferred simply to refuse his suspicions until the reality of the situation became undeniable. It seemed an appropriate habit for a magistrate.

The bottom of the track was that reality. Channock stopped. Though Christophor continued for a few paces, he was forced to walk back.

‘Are you sure?’ the magistrate shouted over the wind, though they were mere inches apart.

Christophor nodded.

‘Where it began. The serving boy?’

He nodded once more.

‘Another?’

‘No,’ he shouted back.

‘You’re sure?’

He turned to the track, but the magistrate caught his arm.

‘Hard for the town. Discretion, Inspector.’

Bent against the gale, they pushed on towards the Eder house.

Christophor found that house in no way diminished, no less imposing. What he was about to do would have an impact – the magistrate’s nervousness attested to that – but it would not change the nature of that unhappy place. The stones would remember. The wooden window frames and the glass they held would remember. And the house wouldn’t let the people that came and went forget.

In the relative shelter of the covered porch, they caught their breath. Christophor had glanced only the once towards the town below, and once then to Fort Seeben beyond, on their way up the track. He did not look again. Was he afraid he might see something that would challenge his certainty, his faith in himself? Would he see a town whose landscape had been so deliberately altered in a year of such significance? Best not to look at all.

Channock made to speak, but my night-brother cut him off.

‘Do not ask if I am sure.’

‘You trust your evidence.’

‘As will you,’ Christophor said. Beside the door, he drew aside the leaves of the creeper that clung to the trellis. ‘Mark this apotropaic, sir. The witch will shudder, writhe even, when passing this threshold. May even try to dissuade us from this way at all.’

He knocked on the door using the brass stag head. The Eder butler took in the situation immediately, admitting inspector and magistrate with no challenge. If anything, Christophor thought he could detect a hint of relief about the man.

‘If it pleases you gentlemen to wait here,’ the butler said. ‘I will bring the master of the house.’

‘And Mrs Eder,’ Christophor said.

This time Magistrate Channock kept his tongue, but the effort was obvious to all. Suspicions, Magistrate. You have managed to deny them for so long – years, in fact. As events unfolded, you – like most – found other explanations more palatable, more rational. Commendably, you clung to that rationality for as long as the world about you aided it. But there were times you felt a wobble, did you not? In church. Walks in the forest. Late night whiskey by the fire. Whenever there was a quiet moment to think, to really think. Another serving boy? you asked him. Was that rationality now ready to topple completely? I thought so, and so did my night-brother. That was why his hand was so quick to steady you as the full implication of events buffeted you more than any wind could.