"I am surprised you haven't met Guthrie. He's Irish, from Tiperary, I believe. He's quite hard to miss -- lean, looks like a starving waif. Hunched over, shabbily dressed. He looks more like a refugee than a Sexton. He keeps the Cemetary open all hours, to ensure that all the inhabitants of Drakesheath are able to visit their loved ones. Really, I am sure you are aware that we have a number of residents in town with a rare allergy to sunlight" Lizabet said. The serious young man with the note book was not at ease. He was followed by a cloud of spirits. Two made sense to Lizabet, looking like they had been turned into meatpies. Clearly the two recent victims the whole village was talking about, and wanting justice, too. The rest could be three months dead, or three hundred years dead. They were iritated.

When Guthrie's name was mentioned, the crowd moved closer. Lizabet narrowed her eyes. Guthrie Well! she would have to have a little talk with him. She thought they had worked out that little problem. Last time, Lord Godwinson had gotten involved.

The Inspector was haveing a word with his assistant. Cadno had gone to fetch the Doctor some time ago. She wondered what was keeping them?