‘Well, Special Inspector Morden, aren’t you a long way from home.’

‘By request of the King.’

The constable raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Jan and Gregory Harsson.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Theft. Silverware mostly, if I recall. Surely the King doesn’t send out inspectors every time some knives and forks go missing?’

‘Not every time, no. Whose knives and forks went missing, Constable…?’

‘Webber. And it was Mr and Mrs Eder’s silverware that Jan took. He worked for them, up at the manor.’

‘What reason did the boy give?’ I said.

Again the constable regarded me for a moment. ‘You didn’t speak to him,’ he said. ‘Before coming all this way, you didn’t speak to him. Now why’s that?’

‘He was in no state to be interviewed.’

‘Dead?’

‘Worse,’ I said.

Webber stared at the candle’s flame. ‘Claimed he was innocent,’ he said eventually. ‘Like they all do.’

‘You didn’t believe him?’

‘Found the silver at his lodgings. His night-brother, Gregory, he lived somewhere else in town. Wasn’t much more to it.’

‘You never wondered why he stole the silver?’ I said.

‘No mystery to it, Inspector. He was greedy and he wasn’t very clever.’

‘And why was he sent so far north to serve his sentence?’

‘The Eder family thought it would be better, for everyone, that way. Mayor Eder was keen Mrs Harsson be spared the shame.’

‘Mrs Harsson,’ I said.

‘Lives on Church Lane. Now, you want to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Someone… interfered with Jan Harsson. While he was in a locked cell.’

The constable considered this. I was beginning to see he was a thoughtful, deliberate man who, I would guess, was rarely to be rushed. My travels as a young inspector had led me to expect a very different kind of officer to be sitting behind that desk. My time as an older inspector in Esteberg led me to be wary of capable men.

‘I suppose that explains the Special, then,’ Webber said. ‘Can’t say I know much of anything in that regard, we don’t have any Special Inspectors in these parts. But I’ll help any way I can.’

‘For now, I require discretion. And any details you have regarding Jan Harsson’s arrest.’

‘Take a seat, Inspector, I’ll copy you out what I have.’ He began hefting pages in his large ledger and looking down the tight columns, his nose less than an inch from the yellowed paper.

I sat on a hard seat in the hallway until my backside could take no more, then I stood and paced. The constable was fully absorbed in his task with what I perceived to be some relish. I wandered to the cells, which comprised of barred walls sunk into floor and ceiling, and which were surprisingly well-furnished. Two cells, one bed in each. Their comfort and cleanliness told me much of Drekenford’s history of misdemeanours.

I wondered which had held Jan Harsson. How had the boy spent those last hours in his own town? Did he rage and spit and curse the constable, his employer, his fate? For some reason I couldn’t picture him there, in the relative comfort of a dry cell complete with bed and blanket. Instead, he huddled in the corner until he noticed me. Until he heard me. And then he was struggling to be away, pressing himself against the unyielding walls, confused and afraid – but not of me. Afraid of someone much farther away. Of someone—