They walked through the square and she led him to her favourite part of town: the church. ‘It’s so peaceful,’ she said.

He didn’t deny it. But as he stared at the altar at the far end he felt a chill. ‘It’s such a fine day, would you mind if we worshipped the sunlight instead?’

They meandered through the church’s graveyard in a respectful silence. Then, back in the street, she asked where else he would like to go.

‘Your next favourite place,’ Alexsander said.

She took him to the bridge into Drekenford, the bridge with the stone animals. It was, evidently, a day of favourites as they spent much time debating the merits of each animal. She liked the bear, though it was a shame one of its glass eyes was missing and still, after many years, had yet to be replaced. He enjoyed the playful mischief of the baboons – was that an unfair choice, as there were two baboons on the same plinth? She thought not.

They stepped aside as a cart rolled along the bridge. The driver bid her good day. As she raised her face to look at Alexsander, with the sunlight flooding her features, I finally recognised this much-changed woman. This was Mrs Eder’s day-sister.

He recognised something else, something much more powerful.

*

They spent the rest of the day together, later calling on the painter. He was, in my opinion, a rascal. They found him shirtless on his balcony, with an open bottle of wine beside his dry paintbrushes. Alexsander and he were sure to be firm friends. I was also sure to be waking with a hangover, but I doubted it was by way of punishment. Alexsander simply enjoyed enjoying himself.

They spoke at length of art, music, literature, and other forgettable methods of passing the time. This was how he chose to distract himself from the harsher realities of life. Rebecca – that was Mrs Eder’s day-sister’s name – had been pleasant company when they were walking, but came somewhat to life as part of a group. She argued passionately that support of the arts was a civic duty, as important as sewerage or the constabulary. She was preaching to the choir, of course, but that did not detract from her zeal. A zeal she maintained while those around her grew steadily drunk.

As the day drew to an end, she helped Alexsander back to the inn. He was to play tomorrow, he said, and he hoped she would be there. She said she would.

I decided to look once more at Jan Harsson’s file – the one given to me by the late Constable Webber. I lit my candle, first making sure it was unmarked. Perhaps this verged on paranoia, but given the last thing I read had tried to kill me I felt such caution was justified.

It was with some trepidation, then, that I opened the file. To my relief the constable’s cursive was nothing like Mrs Eder’s; instead scratchy, short letters jostled for space along faintly drawn lines. It took me a little while to become accustomed to the style but once I could see the pattern of it the reading became easier, though no more insightful. The details of the stolen silverware – the crime for which Jan Harsson was imprisoned – were carefully documented, as was where the silverware was found. Mayor Eder was noted as the victim. Nothing was mentioned of Mrs Harsson, the mother, nor of Mrs Eder’s role in the affair. From my brief meetings with both women I had no doubt they would have exerted considerable influence on proceedings. Drekenford was so far a town that enjoyed keeping records, but it also enjoyed keeping its secrets.