The weather was fair with crisp mornings and a bit of unexpected sunshine to warm the noon hour. We spent the days in playing with Little Jack and taking the children for walks into Narrow Wibberley, where they were much admired, and we spent freely to encourage goodwill. But our smiles and our coins also bought us opportunities to investigate. Brisbane, taking a leisurely stroll about the village—which in itself would have alarmed the neighbourhood had they known that Brisbane never did anything entirely for leisure—discovered a black coach discreetly parked behind the smithy. The lanterns were fitted with green glass, and if that were not proof enough, a quick glance into the coach revealed a coachman’s livery of unrelieved black as well as a hood. Likewise, on his visit to the pub, Plum made the acquaintance of an enormous black mastiff, clearly our spectral hound of death. Portia herself unearthed a cache of small, old-fashioned lanterns behind one of the plague cottages, while I met the postmistress’ son, a truly strapping lad who seemed to be suffering from a strained back, the result—or so he claimed—of a sporting injury.
