Page 12 of The Killing of a Chestnut Tree

The woman paused at this, and nodded. “So they have,” she said. “Will your companion find the culprit, do you think?”

“If it can be done, Havelock will do it.” I surveyed the table. There was a bucket of mulch, into which the woman was pushing the crushed remains of the nettles she was chopping at. “Are you making paper?” I asked.

This seemed to take the woman by surprise. “I am indeed.”

“The letter Havelock and I received was made of nettles,” I explained.

“You have a sharp eye. Maybe you’re worth the money we’ve paid for you after all.” Placing her knife down and wiping her hands on a rag, she offered one to me. “I’m Mary,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” I shook her hand. These are the things that Havelock would later tell me he noticed about Mary’s appearance:

There were a pair of spectacles on a chain around her neck that she was clearly refusing to use—preferring instead to squint at her work. Her arms were toned, and the knees and elbows of her outfit were worn. There were small scars across the tips of her fingers, and her nails were chewed. The only item she wore of any value to her was a pocket watch, which hung from the pocket of her waistcoat. She had the habit of touching it to still its swing, but the wear of it suggested that she did not often open it.

“I meant what I said,” she told me. “You’d be better off leaving your sword on the mantelpiece of your room. There’s those in Farleigh that won’t take kindly to an armed soldier wandering about.”

“All the better I carry it, then. For my own protection, and Havelock’s.”

“Have your way with it.” She shrugged, and resumed her work.

“Is the Ambassador around this morning?”

“I haven’t seen him. But he’s done himself an injury, and isn’t moving about as much right now. You’ll find him in the old monastery. Surely he’s not a suspect?”

It was my turn to shrug. “A man worth speaking to, at least.”

“I’m sure.” Mary pointed with her knife at the overgrown lawn. “I saw your companion yonder, if you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you,” I said, bowing politely before making my way.

Traversing the grasses of Farleigh House reminded me of the time Havelock and I went all the way to the jungles of Colombia. Our guide had led us through the thick undergrowth with a machete, and I wished for one now; pushing my way through all the foliage of the overgrown garden in the warmth of the morning sun was hard going. For a moment, I considered employing my sabre, but could not bear it to suffer the indignity.

I found Havelock in the shade of the trees, studying the trunk of a particularly gnarled specimen. “Oak?” I asked.

“Good morning, Sebastian,” he said. “Hornbeam, if I’m not mistaken. Will you come and look at this?”

“What have you noticed?”

Havelock traced his fingers across a pattern in the bark. I peered closely. “Oh!” I said. “It looks like a word. How novel.”