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“An axe? We keep no axes.”

“And yet the Duke was felled with one.”

“Really? Well, I suppose that makes sense.” Anker peered off, into the distance. “I believe that Amake—our orchard keeper—might occasionally find use for one. Perhaps you could ask her about the tools she keeps?”

“We shall. Thank you.”

A lazy bee—perhaps one of the last of the year—landed on the rim of my cup, and I watched it crawl about. I was feeling very satisfied by our luncheon.

“One last thing,” said Havelock, “and then we will leave you in peace.”

“Oh, you’re hardly a bother,” protested Anker. “We have few visitors here, and I relish novel conversation. Please: Ask away.”

“The Duchess told us that you and she have a disagreement.”

“Did she?” This, too, seemed to take Father Anker by surprise. “Oh. Does she suspect me of harbouring ill will towards her and the Duke? Nothing could be further from the truth, I assure you. I rather enjoy our little disagreement, and I thought she did too.”

“Grief can change a person’s perspective,” said Havelock.

Anker nodded. “The Duchess isn’t very mobile, so I try and call at least once a week. In recent months, it has become apparent that we differ when it comes to a matter of faith.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Well. It’s quite simple, really.” Anker smiled to himself. “The Duchess believes that the trees of Farleigh Forest have souls.”

There was a lovely moment of thoughtful quiet. The clouds passing overhead cast fleeting shadows over the table, and Havelock poured himself another cup of apple juice. “And you disagree?” he said at last.

“I do. Or, rather—I did. I pray on it every day, and I read through the scripture, and truth be told, I think I might be coming around to the idea.”

I cast my eyes back to the yew tree over the well.

SUCH GENTLE YEARS

It was clear that we had much to consider.

At Father Anker’s direction, we went west through Farleigh village, in search of its orchards. The wind picked up again, providing a refreshing breeze. Smoke from a chimney swept across us, and dry leaves tumbled around us, and Havelock continued to politely greet everyone we passed. There was something of a fashion for straw hats in Farleigh, though the local selection was far cruder than Havelock’s tailored offering. A woman chased her hat across the road, and I helped her fetch it—an intervention that left us both laughing.

“I don’t know about you,” said Havelock, “but Farleigh has me feeling quite jolly.”

“So long as we don’t lose sight of our purpose,” I said, because the more we explored the village, and forest, and spoke with the locals, the worse the crime we were investigating seemed. I could hardly imagine taking an axe to any of Farleigh’s beloved trees. I saw a woman carrying a basket of apples, her expression dark, and it felt like a glimpse of the undercurrent of worry gripping the village.

Not too much farther ahead, we came to what must have been the edge of the orchards. The wind was causing apples to tumble into the grove, and those gathering apples were having to mind their heads while they worked. It was a mixture of men and women, young and old, and supervising them was a tall young woman.

“Hullo,” said Havelock, approaching her. “Are you Amake?”

“I am,” she said.

These are the things that Havelock observed about Amake Ube that he would later reveal to me:

Amake stood proudly at her full height, in a stance that seemed to be a deliberate affectation—as if she were recovering from many years of stooping. She wore clothing of the local fashion—uniformly well-worn, but very clean—though most of it had clearly been modified to accommodate her. From time to time she would instinctually bow her head in deference, before immediately correcting herself. There was a simple bracelet around one of her wrists, which was no more than a silver loop, and which she had the habit of turning about while thinking—polishing and warming it so that it gleamed brightly.

“It’s marvellous to meet you,” said Havelock. “I’m Havelock Harper, and this is Major Sebastian Wright. I’m told that you oversee Farleigh’s orchards?”

“I do—as much as they need overseeing.”

It was true that Farleigh’s orchards, at least from what we could see, were not orderly in the usual manner. The apple trees seemed to grow where they pleased—some close together in clusters, others farther apart where the ground was rocky—and it was difficult to determine where the forest ended and the orchard began.

“Your accent…” said Havelock. “Have you spent time in Lagos?”