‘Here we are then, Inspector.’

Constable Webber was beside me, holding a file inside which were papers covered in neat handwriting. Dates, times, dry descriptions. Exactly what I needed to begin my investigation.

As I took my leave, Webber once again offered his assistance. I assured him we would speak again.

*

I made my way to the residence of Mrs Harsson, who was apparently Jan and Gregory’s only living next of kin. I hoped she would be more forthcoming regarding her sons’ characters than Constable Webber had been. Church Lane – the address provided by the constable – was not particularly difficult to find; the church spire was visible from almost every street in Drekenford. The hourly bells echoed throughout the valley so clearly I had no doubt Fort Seeben set its sentries by them. When I arrived at the house there was no reply to my knocking. The curtains of the small house were drawn, with no hint of movement or light behind. I knocked once more, louder this time, and then made sure I was alone on the street.

I tried the door handle. I would not have done so in Esteberg, but if there was anywhere in Reikova that people did not lock their doors it would be in a small town such as this, on the same street as a church. Mrs Harsson, however, had locked her home.

I wandered down to the church. It was sizable and ornately decorated with gargoyles and animals, which reminded me of the stone creatures on the bridge. The walled grounds held rough rows of gravestones in varying states, with many generations buried together in family plots. As interesting as these were, I was more taken with the stones that had worn away so much that no dates or names were visible. These blank slates were sombre, of course, but at one such grave someone had left a modest bouquet. I knelt and tried to trace what could have been a name with my finger.

I flinched: just as I touched the hard, grey stone there came singing from inside the church. I wondered if it were an angelic chorus, but soon found the voices too poor for that.

I entered quietly and took a seat near the back. Pews of dark wood, stained glass windows, and too few candles made for a gloomy atmosphere. The choir stood in front of a priest, and I felt sure Mrs Harsson was among them; many of the first row were of the right age. They were struggling valiantly through a requiem I recognised from my childhood. There was a rolling beauty to it, to the swells of baritone and the punctuation of the sopranos. It ebbed and flowed like the sea, which was so far from this town that the comparison felt awkward. My breathing slowed and, before I could stop myself, I had closed my eyes.

From the darkness, like the coming of a remembered dawn, a fire grew. I could not move from the pew though the heat, the heat, the heat was like a pounding hammer against my forehead. From that sun came four riders. I knew them, one and all: the foreigner with his white bow; Cornet Pitzmun atop her fiery warhorse; the dragoon quartermaster; and the pale cart driver. And I knew my scripture. They stood before me, the four horsemen, and I felt the end of all that was, is, and would be – felt it happen to our body as skin and flesh were flayed from me, leaving only bleached bone and ash. They watched, impassive, as I screamed. As I screamed, and—