The end would begin at the river.

That was the feeling we shared, but he did not like it. His duty was all but done: he had arrested his witch and, following a simple trial, the King’s Justice would be satisfied. A thought gnawed, however, as the smell of smoke and chamber pots grew stronger. He gave that thought, that doubt, a name. Alexsander. He vowed never to let me meddle in a case again. And with that, a weight lifted from Christophor – a boulder that had been chained to his neck to be dragged across this small southern town. He would not do this again. He could not trust himself with another case.

Most of Drekenford had gathered by the river for All Hallows’. The banks on both sides were lined by crowds, and the bridge was busier than any market day he’d seen. No hope of moving a cart along it and, thankfully, no one was trying. Instead, the masses shuffled along from one end to the other and, with no sign of the white horseman, he found himself joining them.

He had never seen the bridge so well-lit. The usual oils lamps were outdone by extra torches and coal braziers that gave off such heat he soon felt his coat unnecessary. There were jugglers and contortionists and hawkers, all managing as best they could with little space. A reasonably talented fiddler played unsettling melodies to match the occasion. But the main attraction was the animal marionettes.

The first, a pair of baboons, cavorted mischievously for the crowds. They tried for people’s pockets, ran amok among the discarded papers and bottles of the day, and danced in mockery of man and monkey. The likeness was striking – not of a baboon, but of the stone statue of a baboon.

But the statue itself was gone. The plinth was empty.

Christophor looked again at the marionette, wondering if he were mistaken. He saw the puppet masters’ string and boards, which itself had an air of the deliberate – people were supposed to see the workings.

‘Don’t fret, Inspector!’ one of the puppeteers called over the crowd’s noise. ‘Christophor here doesn’t bite, and neither does Alexsander. Isn’t that right, boys?’

They had named the baboons after us.

Their jaws clacked open and shut, and those nearby laughed. But people were eyeing him warily now. One heartbeat too many had passed since the jest, and still no reaction from him.

‘Yes, very good,’ Christophor said. Someone patted him on the back and he bore it as best he could.

He was more circumspect at the next marionette – a lion. The puppeteers did their best with the roar – to the delight of the children. They appeared to understand how a large cat moved, quite cunningly making it yawn and stretch. Looking beyond the lion, Christophor realised the stones plinths weren’t empty at all, but artfully hidden under black cloths.

‘Look, Maria, the bear statue has come to life!’ a woman said to a less than enthusiastic little girl. ‘Look, it must be the statue – it only has one eye!’