Burke reached behind himself and brushed at his coat. His fingers came back coated with something dark and flaking, like pieces of charred paper. He brought them closer to the lamplight and examined them, lifting them to his nose to sniff them as he did so.

They smelled of burning right enough, he thought, but not of paper. Burke recalled an incident, some years earlier, when he had been forced to enter a house about to be engulfed by fire in an effort to extract any survivors before the building collapsed. He found only one, a woman, and her body was already badly burned when he discovered her. She expired upon the road outside, but Burke remembered the way that fragments of her skin adhered to his hands, and the smell of her had never left him. It was why he rarely ate pork, for the smell of roasting pig was too close to that of human meat burning. That was the smell that now lay upon his fingers.

He brushed it away on his coat as best he could and continued toward the village, faster now, his footsteps slapping upon the road as he ran, and all the time he was conscious of being followed from the undergrowth, until at last he came to the margins of Underbury itself and the creature stopped before the first house. Burke was breathing heavily as he scanned the blackness in the bushes. He thought for an instant that he saw a darker shape within it, a figure within the shadows, but it was gone almost as soon as he registered it. Still, its shape stayed with him, and he saw it in his dreams that night: the shape of its hips, the swelling of its breasts.

It was the figure of a woman.

The next morning, Stokes and Burke, accompanied by Waters, drove across the village to the farmhouse occupied by Elsie Warden and her family. Burke was quiet on the journey. He did not speak of what had occurred the night before on the road back to the village, but he had slept badly and the stink of charred meat seemed to cling to his pillow. Once he awoke to the sound of tapping at his window, but when he went to check upon it, all was still and silent outside, yet he could have sworn, for a moment, that the smell of roasted fats was stronger by the sill. He dreamed of Mrs. Paxton, watching him through the glass with her breasts exposed, but in his dream her face was replaced by that of Mrs. Allinson, and the green of her eyes had turned to the black of cinders.

Elsie Warden’s brothers, too young to enlist, were out in the fields, and her father off on some business of his own in a neighboring town, so only Elsie and her mother were in the kitchen when the policemen arrived. They were offered tea, but they declined.

In truth, Burke was not entirely certain why they had come, except that there had clearly been bad blood between the Warden family and the late Mal Trevors. Mrs. Warden remained sullen and unresponsive in the face of their questions, and Burke saw her glance occasionally through the window that looked out over the family’s fields, hoping to catch sight of her sons returning from their labors. Elsie Warden was more forthcoming, and Burke was a little surprised at the level of assurance exhibited by a young woman brought up in a household largely composed of menfolk.

“We were all in the pub that evening,” she told Burke. “Me, my mum and dad, and my brothers. All of us. That’s the way around here. Saturday nights are special.”

“But you knew Mal Trevors?”

“He tried to court me,” she said. Her eyes dared Burke to dispute any man’s reasons for pursuing her. The detective was not about to argue with her. Elsie Warden had lush dark hair, fine features, and a body that Sergeant Stokes was doing his very utmost not to notice.

“And how did you respond to his advances?”

Elsie Warden pursed her lips coyly.

“Whatever do you mean by that?” she asked.

Burke felt himself redden. Stokes appeared to be suddenly afflicted by a fit of coughing.

“I meant-” Burke began, wondering what exactly he had meant, when Stokes came to the rescue.

“I think what the inspector means, miss, is did you like Mal Trevors, or was he barking up the wrong tree, so to speak?”

“Aaah,” said Elsie, as if she were only now beginning to understand the direction the conversation was taking. “I liked him well enough, to begin.”

“She always was attracted to bad sorts,” said her mother, speaking a full sentence for the first time since they had arrived.

She kept her head down as she spoke, and did not look at her daughter. Burke wondered if the old woman was scared of her. Elsie Warden seemed to radiate life and energy, and it was clear that she had the capacity to arouse strong feelings in men. There was something fascinating about her, especially seeing her seated next to the worn-out figure of her mother in the gloomy kitchen.

“Was Mal Trevors a bad sort?” asked Burke.

Elsie tried the coy look again, but it faltered a little on this occasion.

“I think you know what Mal Trevors was,” she said.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He tried.”

“What happened?”

“I struck him, and I ran.”

“And then?”

“He came looking for me.”

“And took a beating for his troubles,” said Burke.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she replied.

Burke nodded. He took his notebook from his pocket and flicked through the pages, although he had no need of its contents to guide his thoughts. Sometimes he found that the very act of checking the written word was enough to disconcert an individual under police scrutiny. He was pleased to see Elsie Warden crane her neck slightly, as though in an effort to discern what might be contained within.

“I’m told you took ill the night Mal Trevors was killed,” he said.

Elsie Warden flinched. It was a small reaction, but enough for Burke. He waited for an answer, and watched as Elsie appeared to analyze the possible answers she might give. Burke felt a shift in her, and was aware of the charm slowly seeping out of her, disappearing between the cracks on the floor to be replaced by what he could only regard as a form of restrained ferocity.

“That’s true,” she said.

“Before or after you heard about Mal Trevors?”

“Before.”

“May I ask what ailed you?”

“You may ask,” she said, “if you want to embarrass yourself.”

“I’ll take that chance,” said Burke.

“I had my visitor,” she said. “The monthly guest. Are you happy now?”

Burke gave no sign of happiness or unhappiness. Underbury was giving him much-needed practice in hiding any embarrassment he might feel.

“And Mrs. Allinson assisted you?”

“She did. She took me home later, and tended to me.”

“It must have been most severe, to require her ministrations.”

He was aware of a sharp intake of breath from Stokes, and even Waters felt compelled to intervene.

“Now, sir, don’t you think we’ve gone far enough?” he said.

Burke stood.

“For the moment,” he said.

Suddenly, he staggered, overcome, it seemed, by a moment of weakness. He stumbled and brushed against Elsie Warden, then found purchase on the mantel.

“Are you all right, sir?” Stokes had come to his aid.

Burke waved him away.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little light-headedness.”

Elsie Warden now had her back to him.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said. “I hope I didn’t injure you.”

Elsie shook her head and turned to face him. Burke thought she was a little paler than before, and her hands were folded across her chest.

“No,” she said. “You didn’t.”

He took a breath, thanked the women, then left. Mrs. Warden saw them to the door.

“You’re a rude man,” she said to Burke. “My husband will hear of this.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he replied. “I should tend to your daughter, if I were you. She looks ill.”

He said nothing to Stokes or the disapproving Waters as they returned to the village. Instead, he thought of Elsie Warden, and the look of pain that had crossed her face as he brushed against her body.