Leach wouldn’t see it there. But now when Fergal woke, I thought, at least he’d have a weapon. If he did wake.

He’d gone still again.

Creed said, in that same elegantly soulless voice I’d learnt to fear, ‘I do confess that I have never understood the loyalty these Butler men command, and yet I truly cannot help but be impressed by it.’ He looked from Peter back to Hewitt and then to the silent man who stood between the window and the door. ‘It is a pity there’ll be no one from Polgelly on the jury to defend them when they’re brought to trial, for Londoners will surely be less sympathetic to the Butlers’ charms.’ He turned to Leach. ‘I know you’ll be occupied watching O’Cleary, but were I to leave you his sister as well could you manage it?’

Leach looked me up and down, leering. ‘Oh, ay, I could manage her fine, Mr Creed.’

Peter moved again sharply in protest, and Creed’s gaze swung round.

‘You object to that also, Mr Pascoe? Perhaps you’d prefer, then, to stay behind with them.’

‘I would, ay.’ The older man’s face was distrustful, but Creed only told him, ‘So be it,’ and took a step backwards to clear the way.

Peter, still clearly disturbed by my state of undress, began shrugging his coat from his shoulders as he crossed the floor, and the constable reached to take hold of the back of the coat’s heavy collar, as though to assist him.

And then his hold tightened, and swiftly his free arm swung forwards and drove hard at Peter’s chest.

It happened so fast that at first I was not really sure what I’d seen. With a cough and a look of astonishment Peter collapsed to his knees, arms pinned back by the constable’s grip on the coat.

‘You may stay, as you wish,’ Creed said lightly, and as he drew his arm back I could see the knife blade brightly red, a deadly thing. Peter coughed again, and Creed yanked back once with his other arm to wrench the coat completely clear, then watched without expression as the older man fell face-first to the floor and lay unmoving.

‘Now, then.’ In the small, shocked silence Creed, uncaring, wiped the bloodied knife blade on the coat’s dark sleeve. ‘Does anybody else prefer to stay behind?’

The men, including Leach, stayed silent.

‘No?’ The constable glanced round for confirmation. ‘Then let us go.’ He waved the knife from Leach to me and told him, ‘Get her up.’

‘You said—’

‘I lied.’ Creed’s eyebrows rose as if to show surprise that anyone would have thought otherwise. ‘If Butler has his men around him, he may need persuading to submit to his arrest. Besides,’ he added, ‘if I left her here with you she might distract you from your duties, Mr Leach.’

Leach didn’t answer him out loud, but he was grumbling something underneath his breath as he reached down to roughly grab my arm and haul me to my feet.

Creed gave his knife a final close inspection. Satisfied, he tossed the coat across to me, and turned away before I caught it.

‘Cover yourself,’ he said.

The boy who still stood just inside the door was staring dumbly at the body on the floor. If he had ever seen a murder done at all, I thought, he’d never been this close to one, because the stunned uncertainty was written plainly on his face.

The constable stopped walking just in front of him, and waited. ‘Well?’

The boy, misunderstanding, seemed to think that Creed was asking his advice, and answered, ‘Shouldn’t we … that is, sir, should we not attempt to move …?’

Creed frowned. ‘Move what?’ He turned his head, his own gaze following the boy’s. ‘Oh, that. No, leave him there. It was unfortunate that in our efforts to arrest O’Cleary he attacked and killed poor Mr Pascoe, but we can at least console ourselves in knowing that a charge of murder added to his treason will ensure the judge assigns him an unpleasant end.’ He looked back at the boy, impatient. ‘Now, this cave.’

‘The … yes, sir. Yes.’ The boy recovered. ‘I can take you there.’

‘Then do so. Mr Hewitt?’

‘Sir?’

Creed shot one final glance behind him, cold and purposeful. ‘Bring Butler’s whore.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I saw fire on the hillside.

At first my mind just lumped that observation in with all the other things about the night that seemed surreal – the violent drama I’d stepped into, Fergal lying senseless on the floor, the man named Peter being killed before my eyes, and now the fact that I was being hurried by the hands of strangers over the dark field that lay between Trelowarth and the woods … why shouldn’t there be fire on the hill as well, I wondered?

But even through the fog of shock that masked my sharper senses I could see it was no random fire, nor any strange imagining.

The Beacon had been lit.

I’d never seen it lit in my own lifetime. I had seen my parents’ snapshots of the Beacon being lighted for the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth, before my birth, and Claire had sent me pictures of it burning on the eve of the Millennium, when all of Britain’s ancient beacons had been set ablaze, but what the photographs had captured was a fraction of the full effect.

The sight was truly awe-inspiring, flames of brilliant gold that speared the star-flecked sky and shifted shape in random sprays of sparks. At any other time I might have marvelled at it, but my mind had narrowed in its focus and refused to be distracted long by anything that fell outside the needs of self-protection.