The village of South Mardian likes the old ways. The very old ways. This may be 1957, but South Mardian still features a blacksmith, a village idiot, and an elaborate fertility ritual performed at the winter solstice. There's squabbling, of course, and worse-like when one of the ritual's main players is found beheaded, everything north of his neck having been neatly lopped off by a ritual sword. Inspector Alleyn does have to contain a certain incredulous amusement at the village's fetishistic embrace of the eighteenth century-he does not, for example, have a real passion for morris dancing-but he'll try to keep a straight face long enough to find the killer and let South Mardian return to the warm embrace of pre-Industrial Britain.
