After about an hour, activity began to center on a large building three doors down, separated from the customs house by a row of alms cottages. This building was tall and churchlike, with high windows and a bricked-up Gothic doorway. The entrance in use was to the side of it, and much less striking.

Gaslights were lit inside, and all the doors were thrown open. After a while a cart arrived, bearing a number of well-used trestle tables. By now a crowd had gathered, and some lent a hand to carry them. Blackout curtains were raised at the windows to create a private space within.

Throughout all this time, the light was fading; and at the point where the day was all but extinguished in the sky, a number of the Specials returned and moved everybody back. They set up a ring around the building, where they stood facing outward and looking uncomfortable at this implied confrontation with their neighbors. But the small crowd complied, as if they, too, had a role to play here, and wished only to be told what was proper.

Where were the parents, Sebastian wondered? Not here and waiting on the pavement for news, that was for sure. But no one would ever envy them this day. In fact, Florence Bell’s mother was in their rented villa, and her father on his way up from London. The parents of Molly Button—childhood friend, now fixed in her childhood forever—would know nothing about anything until the next morning, when a telegram would reach them at their hotel in Aix-les-Bains.

And now the light was gone. It was not so much like the fading of the day as the looming of a terrible shadow, rising from the woodland on the far side of the hill and inking out the sky.

The wagons came then, down from the hill in a silent convoy. The one bearing the stretchers led, and the ring of volunteers opened to let it pass through. The bodies were taken into the hall and one of the Specials gave a hand to help the vicar, who’d made the journey with them, to climb down and follow after. He was elderly, and the climb was difficult for him. The girls were fully sheeted, but their small forms were unmistakable. Some of the women turned away. The men stared, bleakly.

Boxes and bags were taken in, all the evidence collected from the scene. The local doctor arrived from the hill a few minutes later and followed the bodies into the hall.

There was little to see after that. The doors were closed, the volunteers dispersed, the wagons all sent away. There was a general move toward the church. One man remained to guard the door of the hall.

After a while, the church bell began to ring.

STEPHEN REED ENTERED THE SUN INN’S ILL-LIT AND DESERTED snug about half an hour later.

He’d left papers and his briefcase on the map table. No one had been in to light the gas, and the only illumination came from the passageway behind the bar.

He started to gather his few effects together, and then he seemed to lose heart. He kicked out the chair and sat, heavily.

Sebastian said, startling the officer a little, “Is this your first murder?”

Reed recovered himself. “No,” he said.

“But your first with children.”

He peered at Sebastian in the gloom. Sebastian moved forward, the better to be seen.

“Sebastian Becker. I’m the special investigator for the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy.”

“Oh?”

“You had me arrested for trying to protect your evidence. What happened to the camera I was holding? Please tell me you didn’t let those boys interfere with it.”

“That was a camera?” the detective said.

“I believe so.”

“It was like none I’ve ever seen.”

“Where is it now?”

“Over in the assembly rooms, along with the bodies. Everything’s there.”

“It’s a slim chance,” Sebastian suggested, “but the plate may carry an image from those girls’ last hour. Has anyone been stupid enough to open it?”

Stephen Reed’s distraction fell away, and his sense of purpose seemed to return.

“Oh, Lord,” he said. “I hope not.”

He went out onto the street. A reasonably bright-looking child in a cadet’s uniform was passing, and Stephen Reed collared him. He sent him at a run with a message for the man on the door at the hall. Then he came back inside.

“You’re not a policeman?” Stephen Reed said.

“I used to be.”

“But you work for the Lord Chancellor now.”

“For his Visitor in Lunacy. Sir James Crichton-Browne.”

“What does that mean?”

Sebastian took out the letters of authority that he always carried with him.

“When the sanity of a man of property is questioned,” he said, handing the letters over, “it’s the Visitor’s duty to determine whether such a man is competent to manage his own affairs. Sometimes the mad can be devious in concealing their madness. I investigate those cases.”

Stephen Reed looked at the papers.

He said, “Insanity in our town? I’d say your investigation has implications for mine.”

“If there is evidence to support such a notion, trust me to share it. There’s a telephone across the way. Call the Bethlem Hospital. They keep an office for me there. If you’re in any doubt as to my character, they will confirm what I’m telling you.”

Stephen Reed handed the papers back to Sebastian.

“I jumped to a hasty conclusion,” he said, while managing not to seem too unhappy about it.

“No apology required,” Sebastian said, aware that none had been offered. He returned the papers to the inside of his coat. “Are they definitely the girls you were looking for?”

“I believe so. But I can’t say for certain until we reach Mister Bell to arrange a formal identification. It’s not a thing I can ask of a mother.”

“I heard say that Bell’s a judge in town.”

“A barrister. Florence was his daughter and Molly her best friend. Molly’s parents are abroad. Bell won’t be here until morning and I can tell you, that will not be an easy hour of any man’s life. Their faces have been disfigured.”

“Do you have children of your own?”

“Not even married. Which does not make it any less hard to look upon.”

Sebastian said, “It’ll go well with your superintendent if you can offer a theory.”

“I know,” Stephen Reed said. “Some clothing is missing. I’m thinking this may be a crime of child-stripping gone too far. These were well-dressed girls. Except …”

“What?”

Stephen Reed shook his head, fully aware that his theory was not a good one. He seemed about to say as much when his young messenger reappeared in the doorway. The boy seemed reluctant to cross the threshold into licensed premises.

“Well?” Stephen Reed said.

“Your man on the door says to tell you that someone’s in there looking at the girls.”

Stephen Reed was shocked. “He was to open the room to no one,” he said, and the boy could do no more than look helpless.

“He says it’s Sir Owain, sir.”

Stephen Reed set off for the hall, with Sebastian following close behind.

THERE WAS NOW A MOTOR VEHICLE ON THE STREET OUTSIDE the hall, a landaulet tourer with a silent chauffeur seated in the open behind its wheel. The chauffeur was gloved and muffled against the elements. There was no one in the passenger cab behind him. Stephen Reed went past the vehicle and bore down on his man at the door.

“I said to let nobody in,” Stephen Reed said.

“I know,” the man said, “but it’s Sir Owain, sir. How was I supposed to stop him?”