Darkness closed in on them as the officers stepped inside the musty interior. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. “Don’t worry, Julian. This spot, which still retains its name, acquired the appellation from an old crone who lived there, and who, in addition to a very equivocal character for honesty, enjoyed the reputation of being a witch. That’s Italians for you. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat.
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