Sir Owain wasn’t looking at the bodies. He was scanning all around behind him, looking for something else.

I said, “Well?”

“It was here,” he insisted.

“So where is it now?”

“Others of its kind must have dragged the dead beast away,” he said. “It’s how they keep from being discovered.”

“There’s no sign of any such thing,” I said. “Just these men. Look at them.”

“I know,” Sir Owain said. “Torn by the beast.”

I COULD GET no more out of him. We took their knapsacks and dined on their rations. I washed the machete in the river and we set about completing their raft. I kept the machete by me at all times. I had begun to fear that Sir Owain himself had used it on our companions, cutting down men while in his mind he fought dragons.

They’d made a rudder for steering the raft, and it had some slight effect on our course, but mostly we were at the river’s mercy.

A few minutes after we’d launched, I spied a figure on the bank. It was one of our camaradas, standing out on a promontory. I might easily have missed seeing him, as he did not wave or call out. He stared at us and did not move.

I put my hands together before my face and called out, “Don’t just stand there, man! Swim for it! We’ll pull you on board!”

Perhaps he did not hear me over the torrent’s roar. He certainly made no move in response.

As we drew closer I could see that he was paying me no attention at all. His gaze was fixed on Sir Owain. I leaned on the tiller in an attempt to bring our raft closer to the bank, to give him more of a chance to reach us if he swam. But the raft kept to its course, and merely began to turn around its own center. We were level with him now, and then we were passing him by.

“What are you waiting for?” I called out. “It’s only a raft, it won’t steer. We can’t get to you!”

If he jumped now, he’d still have a chance. We’d be ahead of him, but he’d be swept along at the same speed as ourselves. He could swim to us then.

Without taking his eyes from Sir Owain, the man responded with something in Portuguese. Then he moved back into the jungle. Presumably to make his own way; he may have reached safety, but if he did I never got to hear of it.

I wish that I could at least remember the sound of his words, so that I could repeat them to someone who speaks the language and perhaps find out what he said. All through this Sir Owain returned his gaze, but he made no move and showed no emotion.

I have thought about that moment often, and I often remember the look that passed between the two.

We did not leave the raft for three days. The cut on my foot began to fester. By then Sir Owain had grown delirious, and my own condition was not much better. I’ve been told that my wound turned gangrenous.

I remember him screaming that the beasts were in the water and were now conspiring to follow him home. And I remember one time opening my eyes, and in a brief moment thinking that I could see the world with equal clarity and now understood what he’d told me; that we may not see our beasts, but with practice and understanding we may perceive their shapes in the spaces where they’d been. But of our eventual rescue, I’m afraid I remember very little at all.

THE COASTAL MILK TRAIN GOT HIM INTO ARNMOUTH JUST after daybreak. As Sebastian was once again putting his name into the Sun Inn’s guest book, Stephen Reed appeared at his side.

“Bill Turnbull told me you’d sent ahead for a room,” Stephen Reed said. “Let’s speak plainly.”

“Let’s.”

They moved to the inn’s part-time police office, which had been brought back into service after the murder of Grace Eccles.

“You and I know that tinker never killed those two children,” Stephen Reed said. “And there can be no doubt that Sir Owain is dangerously insane. His wealth and reputation have kept him above suspicion. I believe that if Doctor Hubert Sibley doesn’t actively collude, he at least looks the other way.”

“Then let’s catch them out on that,” Sebastian said. “What exactly happened to Grace Eccles?”

“Are you saying you agree?”

“Absolutely. I know the man’s history now. It’s a recipe for tragedy. How did she die?”

“She appears to have let someone into her home. Someone she knew. She wasn’t expecting to be attacked.”

“That’s a big supposition.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“I’d look for more than that to support it.”

“She poured a glass of water for her guest. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but … you’d have to know Grace. It was him, it has to be.”

“Was there a further violation?”

“Not in the police surgeon’s opinion.”

“No offense,” Sebastian said, “but when a missing-children case turned to murder they replaced you pretty damned quickly. How come you’re back in charge?”

“That case was important to someone,” Stephen Reed said. “Grace Eccles is important to no one. You’ve been a long time away from policing, Mister Becker. You of all people should know how it plays.”

He gave Sebastian a quick account of what was known of Grace’s murder. She’d invited her attacker in. Bloodstains showed that he’d turned on her once inside the house. When she fled the building, he pursued her out onto the estate. After killing her and making little attempt to conceal her body, he returned and searched the house. He might have intended to return to deal with the remains, but at that moment the search mattered more. There was no saying what he was looking for, or whether he’d managed to find it.

Sebastian said, “What’s happening with the tinker? Is the execution still on, or is there a stay?”

“There’s been no word of any stay. I’ve suggested that this new killing may call his guilt into question, but without hard evidence I can’t get anyone to listen. He put his mark to a confession, for God’s sake. Even his own counsel thinks he’s guilty. How did the news get to London? To most people it’s no more than a local affair.”

“I heard it from Evangeline Bancroft,” Sebastian said. “Her mother wrote to her.”

“Evangeline?” Stephen Reed said. “You’ve seen her?”

“I tracked her down. We shared information. Her life has been marked since her childhood, but she remembers nothing of how. She sends you her best wishes. I’ve warned her to stay away.”

EVANGELINE STOOD by her bicycle before Grace’s cottage, her heart heavy, her skin cold. Her oldest friend was dead, and here was where she’d spent her final hour. Now someone was close by, moving around in the yard.

It was a man. An old man, bent and white-haired but able-bodied. Arthur had seemed exactly the same for as far back as she could remember. At one time or another he’d carried out odd jobs for just about everyone in town. Her mother had paid him to paint their shed once. Now he was putting out feed for Grace’s chickens, and hay for Grace’s horses.

When he was done he came over and they stood side by side in silence for a while, watching the horses eat.

Eventually Evangeline spoke. “What’s to be done with them?” she asked.

“Sergeant Reed told me to graze them until someone decides,” Arthur said.

“Stephen Reed? He’s here?”

“Hereabouts,” Arthur said.

When the hay was gone the animals stood in their paddock looking toward the house, as if expecting Grace to appear in the doorway. After the one-eyed horse had been roped and led back from the main street, the others had returned on their own.

“Can I go inside?” Evangeline said.

“No one’s stopping you,” Arthur said.

She left her bicycle by the gate and pushed at the cottage door. The house had not been secured. People would probably avoid it for a while because of what had happened here, but after a few days the superstition would wear off and then anything that wasn’t nailed down would be fair game. Anything that was nailed down would be fair game thereafter. Left unattended for long enough, such a remote building would be stripped of its lead, slates, and timbers, with the dressed stone to follow.