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The rain had been falling on Bellhaven since Thursday, and by Sunday morning the churchyard had become a shallow swamp. Constable Merrow arrived first, boots sinking, torch beam trembling across the headstones like a man searching for something long lost. The body lay face down beside the vicar's toolshed, one arm outstretched, fingers closed around a handful of wet gravel. He recognised the coat immediately, green wax with a torn shoulder, because he had admired it in the pub Friday. It belonged to Alec Prine, who owned half of the valley and was loathed, quietly and thoroughly, by nearly everyone. Merrow crouched, felt for a pulse he knew was absent, and noticed the wound at the base of the skull. Something narrow and heavy had struck twice, perhaps three times, and the rain had washed the evidence into the mud. Behind him, the church bell began its call to service, indifferent, and the first parishioners came through the iron gate. He stood, spread his arms, and told them all to stop walking, though nobody at the front seemed to hear. Twelve people crossed the grass toward him, and one of them, he would later learn, had already killed twice before.