A Vein of Deceit

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It was a glorious summer afternoon, with fluffy white clouds flecking an impossibly blue sky, trees whispering softly in a gentle breeze, and the lazy sound of bees humming among the hedgerows. Cows lowed contentedly in the distance, and the air was rich with the scent of ripe corn and scythed grass.

There had been a fierce heatwave earlier in the year, followed by torrential rains that had devastated farmland all over the country. Fortune had smiled on the parish of Haverhill, though: its crops had survived the treacherous weather, and the harvest was expected to be excellent – its villagers would not go short of bread that winter, and the fat sheep dotting the surrounding hills indicated they would not be short of meat, either.

But the three men who stood around the little tongue of exposed rock in the middle of the wood saw none of this plenty: their minds were on another matter entirely.

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