I was led down a pleasantly tiled hallway to the drawing-room. There, as if I were a lord of great standing, I was announced.

‘Special Inspector Christophor Morden,’ the man said in a clear, clipped voice.

All eyes turned to me. I had, in all my years of service, rarely experienced such a moment of terror.

Fortunately, I was rescued by the hostess, Mrs Eder. She guided me through a room of finely dressed men and women, few of whom I recognised. My initial impression was of quite a crowd as I was whirled between groups of guests that chattered and laughed, both of which sounded like breaking glass to me. I wondered if I’d stepped into some kind of southern masquerade ball – many of the women tittered from behind black masks, though I was glad to find none of the men were so attired.

Yet my concern of having to dance was, thankfully, fleeting; the drawing room was spacious but certainly not big enough for that. And the crowd that had first sparked fear in me revealed itself to be no more than fifteen people.

I found my courage and my voice in time to be introduced to a small knot of people that included the mayor. I shook hands with the local magistrate, Channock. Since the death of Constable Webber, I would require direct dealings with the magistrate. When his wife presented her hand, I did my best to kiss it in a courtly manner. Both the Channocks were elegantly dressed and bore themselves with a dignity that, to my eyes, suggested aristocratic upbringing. My arrival produced a brief lull in the conversation that led me to believe I may have interrupted something. In a hurry to fill that lull, I asked the lady why she, and so many others in the room, wore a mask. Her thin, grey eyebrows rose above its lacquered edge.

‘It is a harvest mask,’ she said. I gave no sign of comprehension so she continued. ‘Between the harvest festival and the winter solstice, a lady attends all formal functions masked. To bring good fortune, and good yields.’

‘Yields?’ I said.

‘A simple, harmless superstition,’ the magistrate said. ‘The town’s farmers swear by it, but in truth I think our ladies enjoy the game of it.’

I’d rarely found superstitions to be simple, nor harmless. In fact, they often functioned as these very masks did: hiding the dangerous, the cunning, or worse.

‘Are such games not the same in the capital, Inspector?’ Mrs Channock asked. ‘At the King’s court?’

‘Perhaps, though I cannot speak for the court,’ I said. In truth, I could speak for nothing: I was not in the habit of attending ‘functions’. Once or twice Alexsander had been engaged to play, alongside other musicians, for the lesser nobility. But my memories of those evenings were fragmentary at best – he was often paid in wine for such performances.

‘If not for the court,’ Mrs Channock said, ‘could you speak of it?’