‘Might that be the end of it, Inspector?’ she said.

‘I doubt it, but do not burden yourself with worry. I’m quite sure you and the inn are safe.’

‘Well, that is some good news.’

*

I retired to my room and wrote to the chief inspector, advising him of Constable Webber’s death. I left out none of the details, grisly or mundane, and reassured him that my investigation was proceeding as could be expected with such a case. I acknowledged receipt of his letter advising me of the King’s wish for a swift resolution before All Hallows’ Eve and the arrival of the second regiment. I also gave a brief summary of Drekenford’s more notable citizens. I did not mention my vision of the horsemen.

I wrote to Custodian Ignatius, courtesy of Esteberg Cathedral, and requested he send Bartrey’s History of the Baalimine as soon as possible. I suggested he employ a King’s courier, a cost I was willing to account for personally, and reassured him of both the safety of the road south and the trustworthy nature of my host here in Drekenford. I hoped I convinced him, as I sought to convince myself.

When I finally put down my quill and capped my ink the sky showed hints of dawn. I stood and stretched and was surprised to feel something in my pocket: Mrs Eder’s invitation. My earlier, fanciful trepidation was gone and I now admired the expensive stock and neatly pressed seal. The front bore my name in long, elegant cursive that continued in the letter itself.

I was cordially invited to a formal dinner, in honour of my arrival in the town of Drekenford, on the evening of the coming Friday. I was then asked to provide a swift reply, and was wished a most happy stay in their humble, little town, signed Mrs Eder.

Below, almost as if a post script, there was something else. Written so small I had to peer at the blocky, un-shapely letters and found myself forming the words aloud in an attempt to read them.

‘Baa— Baalim— Baalimbemine der Ith.’

Light began to seep from those letters as I finished reading them. They were close to the title of Bartrey’s book, but not quite the same. Then, with a tearing sound, the letters started to peel away from the paper.

I dropped the letter and could only look on as, now face-down, the paper twitched and jerked as more letters prised free.

They crawled out from the pale, straight edges; ts and fs pulling themselves along the floor, their crosses like arms. Os and es and as rolled towards me. Ls, capital and lower, lumbered forward. And then some started to climb the bed, stabbing the sheets with their more flared stroke ends. I stepped back as I realised this inked migration was coming directly towards me, and that they were growing.

The letters closed in. Those nearest, walking along the top of the bed, were six inches tall now and larger with every passing moment.