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From what I’ve heard she’s a winsome enough young girl.’
    We arrived at the ferry stage, and found it deserted, the last of the market traffic having now gone across. I looked for the curly-haired guest who had earlier departed the inn, but Battersby had evidently transported him while we were in conference with the sisters. So Fidelis and I stood together alone on the slipway. It was here that the ferryman lowered his ramp to land carts, horses and livestock. Here too the southern end of the shore-to-shore rope, along which the ferry travelled, was attached to the top of a heavy post whose base was sunk deep into the riverbed. The wind was still gusting and the sunshine patchy. I looked across to the far side of the river, where one momentary patch illuminated the area near Battersby’s hut. A knot of people had gathered there, watching four men who hurried towards them carrying a litter along the bankside.
    The slipway was built of two parallel stone walls, 10 feet apart, which diminished in height as they sloped down to, and into, the river. The space between them was filled by earth and gravel to form a short but wide pathway into the water.
    â€˜I suppose he slipped off the side here,’ I said. ‘The water’s deep. He got too near the edge and his feet went from under him, or he lost his balance.’
    Fidelis crouched down, examining the edge of the walling.
    â€˜Could he swim?’
    I almost laughed.
    â€˜Like a bag of nails. He wouldn’t have lasted long.’
    Fidelis moved to the other side of the slipway and inspected the retaining wall on that side. ‘There are no traces to support your theory, Titus. He went into the water wearing iron-shod clogs, did he not? If it was from here he slipped, as likely as not we’d be seeing fresh scrapes somewhere on the parapet to show where his feet went out from under him. There are none.’
    Having assured himself of this, Fidelis rose and joined me in watching the business on the other bank. The bearers had loaded the litter onto Robert Battersby’s craft, then retired to the bank. But one of them immediately saw that they would still be needed on our side of the river, to carry the litter up to the inn. At this point they all re-embarked. Battersby wasn’t happy. He argued with them, waving his arms and seemingly asking for their fares. None were paid and after a while Battersby realized he would be better off bringing the bearers across, but without tickets, than he would with no bearers and the need to make his own arrangements for the corpse when he got to this side. So at last, with bad grace, he cast off and he and his son began winding the travel rope. Antony Egan was coming home.

Chapter Three
    A S SOON AS he had made fast the ferry, and the litter was on its way along the road to the inn, Battersby bore down on me bristling with indignation.
    â€˜I shall bill you fivepence, Coroner, for these five crossings, and another four for the men going back. I’m not doing good works here. I’ve a living to make.’
    â€˜Five crossings?’ I said. ‘You’d charge a fare for a dead man, Robert?’
    Battersby pulled a printed card from his shirt pocket and thrust it in front of my eyes.
    â€˜This here is my tariff sheet, see? It gives the crossing charge for people, and stock, and carts, and horses, and donkeys, and barrels, and bundles, but it says nowt about corpses. So I’ve to decide. It’s a penny per person, a farthing per large bundle. You’re a lawyer. What do you say it was that I just ferried over – a person or a bundle?’
    â€˜Well, that’s an interesting question. I am not sure the law has a definitive answer.’
    He shook his finger at me.
    â€˜And till it does, I’m billing you for a person.’
    He returned to his boat and I looked around for Fidelis. He was back on shore, surveying the riverbank on either side of the slipway. Here,