‘Do you also welcome the coming conflict they herald?’

The mayor drew on his pipe, setting the embers there ablaze. ‘I have assurances the town is in no danger, that the fighting will be far to the south,’ he said eventually. ‘The King, in his wisdom, acts for the glory of all Reikova.’

‘A final question. Are there many whorehouses in Drekenford?’

This, as I’d hoped, surprised him somewhat.

‘Whorehouses?’ he said.

‘Dens of iniquity, brothels, perhaps even the private residences of ladies of ill-repute?’

‘I know what you mean. And of course, Drekenford has its share of such places. Are there many? I couldn’t say.’

‘Perhaps you could advise me of the largest establishment?’ I said.

‘Inspector, really.’

‘It would be a great help to my investigation.’

He drew from his pipe once more and was seemingly reluctant to answer. He looked beyond me to be sure the door to the office was closed. ‘I suppose the place commonly referred to as “Lilly’s” might be of some help to you. I have heard it caters to such appetites.’

As the mayor gave me the address, I doubted very much that Second Lieutenant Matherson frequented Lilly’s but it would at least be a start. I thanked Mayor Eder for his help, and left saying how much I was looking forward to the dinner party; my turn to lie. I fooled neither of us.

*

The sky had cleared somewhat so I took the opportunity to pay my respects to the late Constable Webber. On my way to the church I tried to make some sense of the many threads of the investigation. Whenever I seemed to be closing in on a lead it either slipped away or, worse still, splintered into two or more separate lines of inquiry. What began as one instance of the black arts had become two, then three if I were to count the attack on my own person. And yet I was no closer to discovering who was responsible, let alone their motivation to commit such heinous acts. Poor Jan Harsson, guilty of nothing more than petty theft, still suffered in a cell in St Leonars while I fumbled around in the town of his birth.

I tried to school myself into patience. I had learned, over many challenging cases, that my work could not be rushed. A steady, methodical approach eventually delivered results – and often essential information was to be found in the most unlikely of places. Unfortunately, Drekenford churchyard was not such a place.

It did not take me long to find the Webber plot; yesterday’s bouquets still lay on the constable’s grave. They were cold and colourless in the moonlight. I crossed myself, took off my hat, and spent a silent moment there out of respect. Though my interaction with him had been brief, Constable Webber had struck me as a rare man: a conscientious, diligent, yet caring small town constable. I had seen few such men in the past, and might never see another in my time. His gravestone echoed my thoughts: