When they closed in on the placid, solemn village of St Cleer, they halted at a small inn to water the horses. Kerensa paced up and down over the small square of dirty cobbled yard, desperate to continue.

‘Stay with your mother, Luke,’ Oliver said at the pump and animal trough. ‘I’ll go inside and ask directions to the farm.’

The landlord, a short, fuzzy-haired man with black teeth, hurried out to meet him, bowing and touching his forelock. He listened avidly to Oliver’s request, then gave him brief directions. ‘’Tedn’t far, sur. Could see the farm from ’ere, ’cept for the ’ills. Someone t’ do with Mrs Trenchard, are ’ee? She’m a fine lady, been some good t’ the village, she ’ave. Even more so since we’ve bin buryin’ our dead from the fevers, one laid t’rest only this mornin’. Dreadful bizness though, she’ll take it ’ard.’

‘What are you saying? Is Trenchard dead?’ Oliver lowered his voice, slipping a few pennies into the landlord’s grimy hand.

‘Ais, dead an’ laid out. Constable’s been there. Bound to ’appen some day. Serve un right, I say.’

Oliver thanked the landlord and stalked away, lest Kerensa overhear, so he missed the man’s last remark. ‘Should never ’ave done what ’e did t’ that little maid.’

‘What was he saying?’ Kerensa asked anxiously.

Oliver lifted her quickly on to her pony’s sidesaddle. The landlord was heading their way to indulge in more gossip.

‘We’ll be there shortly, my dear. Try not to worry.’

How was she going to take it when she learned Clem was dead? Oliver didn’t know how he felt about it, he would think about it later. Right now he had to be sensitive to Kerensa’s needs. He was committed to giving her as much of whatever sort of strength and consideration she asked of him. He hoped Trenchard’s death had not been too gruesome.

And what of Bartholomew? The identity of Trenchard’s killer was unlikely to be known by anyone in this area. Had he already started the journey up to London?

On his way to Gereint, Oliver whispered to Luke. ‘We’re too late! Have a care how you present yourself in front of your mother, and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention your cousin’s name, at least not at first.’

They trotted out into the lane and were soon passing through the village. Kerensa tried to ignore the curious stares of those who had come out of their poor housing to see who, suddenly in their midst, was on horseback. They wore stern, subdued expressions and black clothes. Usually she would offer greetings, but she was afraid these people were discussing the bad news she was dreading to hear.

When the houses gave way to open moor again the riders stepped up their pace.