Candlenight

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Laughter trickled after him out of the inn.

Ingley's mouth tightened and he would have turned back, but this was no time to lose his temper. In a hurry now. Knew what it was he was looking for. Could almost hear it summoning him, as if the bells were clanging in the tower.

Besides, he doubted the laughter was intended to be offensive. They were not hostile in the village — yes, all right, they insisted on speaking Welsh in public all the time, as if none of them understood anything else. But he could handle that. As long as they didn't get in his way.

"Torch," he'd demanded. "Flashlight. Do you have one I could borrow?"

"Well…" Aled Gruffydd, the landlord, had pondered the question as he pulled a pint of beer, slow and precise as doctor drawing a blood sample.

The big man, Morgan somebody, or somebody Morgan, had said, very deadpan, "No flashlights here. Professor. Blindfold we could find our way around this place."

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