Anson bustled in, shook hands and seated his visitor. He was a small, compact man in his middle forties, with a double-breasted suit and the neatest moustache Campbell had ever seen: its sides seemed to be mere extensions of his nose, and the whole fitted the triangulation of his upper lip as if bought from a catalogue after precise measurement. His tie was held in place with a gold pin in the shape of the Stafford knot. This proclaimed what everyone already knew: that Captain the Honourable George Augustus Anson, Chief Constable since 1888, Deputy Lieutenant of the county since 1900, was a Staffordshire man through and through. Campbell, being one of the newer breed of professional policemen, did not see why the head of the Constabulary should be the only amateur in the force; but then much in the functioning of society appeared to him arbitrary, based more on antique prejudice than modern sense. Still, Anson was respected by those who worked under him; he was known as a man who backed his officers.

' Campbell, you will have guessed why I asked you to come.'

'I assume the mutilations, sir.'

'Indeed. How many have we now had?'

Campbell had rehearsed this part, but even so reached for his notebook.

'February second, valuable horse belonging to Mr Joseph Holmes. April second, cob belonging to Mr Thomas ripped in exactly the same fashion. May fourth, a cow of Mrs Bungay's similarly treated. Two weeks later, May eighteenth, a horse of Mr Badger's terribly mutilated, and also five sheep on the same night. And then last week, June sixth, two cows belonging to Mr Lockyer.'

'All at night?'

'All at night.'

'Any discernible pattern to events?'

'All the attacks happened within a three-mile radius of Wyrley. And… I don't know if it's a pattern, but they all occurred in the first week of the month. Except for those of May eighteenth, which didn't.' Campbell was aware of Anson's eye on him, and hurried on. 'The method of ripping is, however, largely consistent from attack to attack.'

'Consistently disgusting, no doubt.'

Campbell looked at the Chief Constable, unsure if he did, or didn't, want the details. He took silence for regretful assent.

'They were ripped under the belly. Crosswise, and generally in a single cut. The cows… the cows also had their udders mutilated. And there was damage inflicted upon… upon their sexual parts, sir.'

'It beggars belief, Campbell, doesn't it? Such senseless cruelty to defenceless beasts?'

Campbell pretended to himself that they were not sitting beneath the glassy eye and severed head of the elk or moose. 'Yes, sir.'

'So we are looking for some maniac with a knife.'

'Probably not a knife, sir. I spoke to the veterinary surgeon who attended the later mutilations – Mr Holmes' horse was treated as an isolated incident at the time – and he was puzzled as to the instrument used. It must have been very sharp, but on the other hand it cut into the skin and the first layer of muscle and no further.'

'So why not a knife?'

'Because a knife – a butcher's knife, say – would have gone deeper. At some point, anyway. A knife would have opened up the guts. None of the animals was actually killed in the attacks. Not at the time. They either bled to death or were in such a state when found that they had to be put down.'

'So if not a knife?'

'Something that cuts easily but shallowly. Like a razor. But with more strength than a razor. It could be a tool from the leather trade. Or a farm instrument of some kind. I would assume the man was accustomed to handling animals.'

'Man or men. A vile individual, or a gang of vile individuals. And a vile crime. Have you come across it before?'

'Not in Birmingham, sir.'

'No, indeed.' Anson gave a wan smile and fell briefly silent. Campbell allowed himself to think about the police horses in the Stafford stables: how alert and responsive they were, how warm and smelly and almost furry in their hairiness; how they twitched their ears and put their heads down at you; how they blew through their noses in a way that reminded him of a boiling kettle. What species of human could wish such an animal harm?

'Superintendent Barrett remembers a case some years ago of a wretch who fell into debt and killed his own horse for the insurance. But a murderous spree like this… it seems so foreign. In Ireland, of course, the midnight houghing of the landlord's cattle is practically part of the social calendar. But then, little would ever surprise me of a Fenian.'

'Yes, sir.'

'It must be brought to a swift end. These outrages are blackening the reputation of the entire county.'

'Yes, the newspapers-'

'I do not give a fig about the newspapers, Campbell. I care about the honour of Staffordshire. I do not want it deemed the haunt of savages.'

'No, sir.' But the Inspector thought the Chief Constable must be aware of certain recent editorials, none of them complimentary, and some of them personal.

'I would suggest you look into the history of crime in Great Wyrley and its environs in the last years. There have been some… peculiar goings-on. And I suggest you work with those who know the area best. There's a very sound Sergeant, can't remember his name. Large, red-faced fellow…'

'Upton, sir?'

' Upton, that's it. He's a man who keeps his ear close to the ground.'

'Very well, sir.'

'And I am also drafting in twenty special constables. They can report to Sergeant Parsons.'

'Twenty!'

'Twenty, and damn the expense. It'll come out of my own pocket if necessary. I want a constable under every hedge and behind every bush until this man is caught.'

Campbell was not concerned about the expense. He wondered how you disguised the presence of twenty special constables in an area where the least rumour travelled quicker than the telegraph. Twenty specials, most of them unfamiliar with the territory, against a local man who might just choose to stay at home and laugh at them. And in any case, how many animals could twenty constables protect? Forty, sixty, eighty? And how many animals were there in the district? Hundreds, probably thousands.

'Any further questions?'

'No, sir. Except… if I may ask a non-professional question?'

'Go ahead.'

'The porch outside. With the pillars. Do they have a name? The style, I mean?'

Anson looked as if this was the most extraordinary question a serving officer had ever asked. 'Pillars? I wouldn't have the slightest idea. It's the sort of thing my wife would know.'

In the next days, Campbell reviewed the history of crime in Great Wyrley and its immediate purlieus. He found it much as he would have expected. A certain amount of theft, mostly of livestock; various cases of assault; some vagrancy and public drunkenness; one attempted suicide; a girl sentenced for writing abuse on farm buildings; five cases of arson; threatening letters and unsolicited goods received at Wyrley Vicarage; one indecent assault and two indecent behaviours. There had been no previous attacks on animals in the last ten years, as far as he could discover.

Nor could Sergeant Upton, who had policed the district for twice that time, recall any. But the question did remind him of a farmer, now passed on to a better world – unless, sir, it turned out to be a worse one – who was suspected of loving his goose too much, if you catch my meaning. Campbell cut off this parish-pump tittle-tattle; he had quickly marked Upton as someone left over from the time when Constabularies were happy to recruit almost anyone except the obviously halt, lame and half-witted. You might consult Upton about local rumours and grudges, but would hardly trust his hand upon a Bible.

'So, you worked it out then, sir?' the Sergeant wheezed at him.

'Is there something specific you have to tell me, Upton?'

'I wouldn't say that. But takes one to know one. Set one to catch one. I'm sure you'll get there in the end, Inspector. What with you being an Inspector from Birmingham. Oh yes, you'll get there in the end.'