He glared at me as he climbed over the iron railings and stamped away across the grass. The field sloped down to the river and beyond it was the forest that sloped up to the Roman fort a mile away. If he followed the river right he’d reach Gilsland. He’d have to pass Halpin’s place. The Heron had Pike’s number, there was no mistaking it. He was a big old hardcase and he would see Brian safe home. And Pike were just after scaring him. If I’d gone running down that hill after him he’d have shot Brian just to show he were the type that would. Better to stay put. Let the boy lose him in the woods. He would be twice as nippy as Pike. He’d be grand. I told myself that. Told myself like it was a prayer as I watched Pike vanish into the gathering dusk as the hunter’s moon started to rise above the trees.

I only had one thought in my head, truth be told. Not for Brian – I knew he’d be safe enough in the woods. No, I wanted to know why Pike had a key. He’d entered the church without a gun and come out holding one. He knew its secrets. Its hidey holes.

I entered the church like it was on fire. I followed the boot prints to the third pew from the front. I felt around in the grey light and found a hole big enough to fit my finger in. The panel slid back like it had been greased. I reached inside as if it was full of mouse traps. My hand touched something cold. Metal. I knew the barrel of a gun well enough. Knew that cool sensation on my fingertips.

I sat back like I’d been shot. Caught something with my boot. It felt like a dead thing; a rotting fox. But the rustle of paper cut through the pounding in my head and my chest.

A prayer cushion. Red and frayed. The stitching half unpicked and a picture of a robin coming apart upon the front.

I picked it up and felt paper crinkle beneath my hands. Reached inside and felt the familiar texture. Paper, half-burned.

I peered at the opening page and saw Fairfax’s scribble. Date. Time. Name.

I’d have read it all there and then were it not for the sudden sound of a shotgun blast and the terrible, terrible screaming of a thousand crows.

CORDELIA

‘I want to speak to Cranham Hemlock.’

I hesitated before saying anything else but it was part of our agreement that I always remind people of the little woman in his life.

‘And to whom am I speaking?’

I bit the inside of my cheek and scowled at the wall.

‘I’m his wife.’