For the second time that day, a tall grey-clad figure wandered his way up the manor drive. His walk about the village had done Barnaby a world of good: the lines about his eyes were less pronounced.

He looked around and blinked. An oak tree on the grounds was splattered in, no, not blood, red paint. Shouts and thuds and running footsteps could be heard as he approached the front of the building, but edged with laughter rather than otherwise.

"What in the world?"