An Order for Death

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YULETIDE WAS ALWAYS A MAGICAL TIME OF YEAR FOR Beadle Meadowman. He liked the crisp chill of winter evenings and the sharp scent of burning logs and of rich stews bubbling over fires in a hundred hearths. He loved the atmosphere of anticipation and excitement as the townsfolk streamed from their houses to attend the high mass in St Mary’s Church at midnight, and he adored the candlelit naves and the heady smell of incense as it drifted from the chancel in a white, smoky pall.

He was in a happy mood as he strolled along Milne Street, holding his night lamp high so that he would not stumble in a pothole or trip over the mounds of rubbish that had been dumped by the people whose houses lined the road. A distant part of his mind registered that the gutters were blocked again, and that an evil yellow-brown gout of muck formed a fetid barrier that stretched from one side of the street to the other. He jumped across it, his mind fixed on the festivities that would begin when the bells chimed to announce that it was midnight.

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