‘She means gossip,’ her husband added.

Floundering, I was at risk of being terrible company. ‘Well, the King’s war has the city abuzz, of course.’

‘Yes?’ they all said as one.

‘Some speculate just how sound His Majesty’s judgement is in sending troops here,’ I said, acutely aware of how poor I was at this. ‘Some even question more than his judgement…’

‘Is that so?’ Mrs Channock said.

‘Come, Inspector, you must think us dreadfully provincial in our hunger for gossip,’ Mrs Eder said.

‘Not at all,’ I said a little too quickly. ‘I have found nothing but warm hospitality and kindness in Drekenford.’

‘Ah! Good, kind country folk,’ the magistrate said.

I was about to agree when I noticed the mischief lurking at the edges of his mouth. ‘The capital,’ I said, addressing Mrs Eder, ‘is a hard place of late, with little joy and scant civility. I confess, with each passing day I dread my return north.’

I thought my lie convincing, but its effect was not as I intended. My hosts looked awkward, almost embarrassed by what I had said, and I didn’t know why. Perhaps they felt I was being overly open and honest – an odd irony for a lie – but it was the southern peoples that had a reputation for bluntness.

A passing servant carrying a tray of glasses provided much needed distraction. I took a glass of wine and found it sharp, but not unpleasantly so. It could have been river sludge and I would have smiled as I sipped it gratefully. When I turned back Magistrate Channock had been replaced by Father Popov, and Mrs Eder had been called away to perform her duty as hostess. The Father wore a more ornate set of vestments than I’d seen him in before and, blessedly, he looked as uncomfortable as I felt. We shared a small, knowing smile at that.

‘—and I am sure there is no further danger. Isn’t that right, Inspector?’

The mayor and Mrs Channock were both looking at me.

‘Well,’ I said, taking another sip so as to gather something that might pass for a coherent thought. ‘I would urge caution, until I have apprehended whoever is responsible.’

‘And will that be soon?’ she asked.

I gazed for a moment at that matt black mask. ‘I hope so.’

‘Hope? But what good is—’

The magistrate’s wife was interrupted by the striking up of a piano, which dominated the far corner of the drawing room. A high-pitched ditty was completed, likely designed to cut through, and then silence, the room’s conversations. In the small pause after those tinkling notes I felt, once again, a strong discomfort with the situation. I was struggling to get a firm grasp of my surroundings, so dizzied was I by the kaleidoscopic mix of dresses, masks, and coats in the room. So dizzied I hadn’t seen something as large as a piano. What hope, yes hope, did I have of spotting smaller, more significant details?