Okay, time to move away from the happy families. Finally.

Late in the evening, long after Katrina had left for her hotel and Masbath had fallen asleep in an armchair, a knock came at the door. Shutting his book with a snap, Ichabod went to answer it. Constable Drew stood, shivering in the cold.

"Yes, Drew?"

"I've got a list of suspects. I think most of them have been pulled in by now, except Scaver, who was killed."

Ichabod tutted under his breath.

"Well, then I shall take their fingerprints tomorrow."

"Just so."

Drew stalked off, and Ichabod closed the door. A busy day tomorrow, it seemed.

The miscreants were assembled in a line in the small room. There was only just room for Ichabod, Drew and a desk. On the desk sat a pot of ink, blotting paper, and then another sheet of paper on which boxes had been drawn. Under each box, a criminals name had been written.

Turning to the assembled wrongdoers, Ichabod took a deep breath.

"Gentleman, I will call your names in alphabetical order, and you will step up to the desk. Then, dip each finger into the inkwell, blot off the excess on this paper, and then press your fingers firmly into the correct box. Constable Drew will be making sure this is done correctly."

Drew nodded, sourly.

"Let's begin. Arnold!"

And so it did indeed begin. By the end of the line, twenty sets of fingerprints had been collected. Well pleased with this method, and feeling more than a little smug, Ichabod carried the paper to the evidence room.

It was a particularly tiny room. Only Ichabod used it. He opened a cupboard to find the knife, still bloodied, and more importantly still with the white powder denoting the fingerprints.

Carefully, he lifted the weapon by the blade, and laid it on the only table. It would be tricky to match up the fingers, but not, he hoped, impossible.

A full three hours later, Ichabod emerged victorious. Goggles still in place, he darted down the corridors, flinging wide the door to where Constable Drew sat guarding the prisoners.

"It was you!"

He pointed an accusatory finger at a dishevelled, short man cowering by the corner. He seemed to know the game was up long before anyone else knew it had started. The other criminals turned to look at him, unused to this new system of justice.

"Drew, lock him up."

"It's constable Drew, to you, Crane. Why can't we just kill him?"

"Because in order to ascertain the motive, we must question the killer. This cannot be done once the killer is dead."

Drew rolled his eyes. He motioned for three of the grunts to lead the shackled men away, after releasing Coldon, the accused.

"Have them all hung."

"Constable! These men may be innocent! We have not tried them or…"

Drew sniffed, and eyed Ichabod with disgust.

"You seem to have left your glasses on, Crane."

With that he left, watching in uncompassionate silence, as the men were lead away to death row.

Mr Forsham watched as the young lads ran and scampered from the classroom. Scallywags all, but nonetheless eager to learn. Sighing, he turned back to his blackboard and began to rub away the lessons of the day.

He was a somewhat reclusive fellow, his only true interests reading, and the teaching of his knowledge to others. He favoured history above all else, and believed there was much to learn from those times gone by. He saw little or no merit in science, instead seeing magic and legend as by far the more useful. Still, he had a varied wisdom, and knew enough to teach the youngsters who gathered in his schoolroom each morning.

Setting down his cloth, he turned to back his case for the journey home. A sudden draught from the window behind fluttered the pages of an open textbook on his desk, and he hurried to close it. As he reached up to pull down the frame, a solid object thumped into his stomach with considerable force.

The teacher flew back across the room, landing heavily on the unforgiving floorboards. Through blurred vision he saw a thin figure in a long, dark blue dress clamber in through the window. It walked quickly to the bookshelf, and lifted the largest, leather bound tome there. Then, with a deliberate slowness, it walked steadily across to him.

Forsham struggled into a sitting position, hauling himself up by gripping the desk leg. The figure stood over him, motionless.

"Madam, what is the meaning of this intrusion…"

The book crashed down, once, twice onto his head, beating him back to the floor. Blood pooled under the skin, bruising almost immediately. The woman brought the book down once more, hard on the teacher's skull. There was a sickly cracking noise, and blood poured in rivulets down his face. Bone poked through the broken skin, splintered and misshapen. The figure stood back, and laid the book carefully upon the desk. She made as if to turn away, then suddenly reached out for the open textbook, still fluttering in the breeze. Holding the book in outstretched hands, the woman stood for a few moments, then silently let the book fall square onto the man's face.

The noise of splintering bone sounded sharply in the empty classroom. The woman picked up the tome, and set it carefully down on one of the children's desks, so the bloodied cover faced upward. Bending down, she lifted a quill from the desk, and left a delicate inscription on the first page:

'To Constable Crane,

Best wishes

?"