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of the strange and stifling atmosphere within the castle walls. The Baron is—at least as regards his name and pedigree—everything he claimed to be, and indeed in many other respects far more eminent a benefactor than the Curators can possibly have realised. But every instinct he possesses is telling Charles that the celebrated scientist is not the sum of the man, and he has not yet seen all the castle conceals.
    By the time the sun is up Charles has covered the best part of five miles through the forest and he’s just wondering if he should turn back, or hope to come upon an inn, when he sees a wisp of smoke rising above the trees. It’s not an inn, as it turns out, but a farmhouse, though Charles doesn’t anticipate much difficulty in obtaining breakfast in exchange for a few kreuzer. But the old woman who comes to the door is at once wary, and turns to call within the house. She has asmall fair-haired child on her hip who must be her grand-daughter, and Charles is struck at once by her resemblance to Betsy, Nancy’s little daughter. Nancy who was until very recently a prostitute, but who’s helped him now on two of his cases, and looks likely to take Molly’s place in his uncle’s kitchen. Though not—and he is absolutely intent on this—in Charles’s bed. If he cares for Nancy it is not that kind of care, and in any case he is terrified of ever enduring such an experience again—of ever opening himself up to such shame and bitter self-disgust. If the pretty Flemish daughter in the train had only known what revulsion he felt even looking at her, she would have—
    “You are staying at the castle?”
    Charles starts. There is a man before him now, a man far too young to be the woman’s husband. And in any case, he is no peasant; his English is impeccable.
    “Yes,” says Charles, eyeing the man’s starched shirt and dark coat, both of them far better pressed than Charles’s own. “I am indeed staying at the castle. I am a guest of the Baron Von Reisenberg.”
    If he expected that name to open doors—or at least this door—he discovers his mistake at once. The old woman gasps and begins to mutter and cross herself. But the man turns to her and speaks a few words gently in German, and eventually she hoists the child a little higher on her hip and disappears into the house, all without once looking directly at Charles.
    “Please,” says the man, standing back to make way. “Come in.”
    Charles is shown into the farm kitchen, where herbs are hanging drying from the eaves and a large dog is lying asleep before the fire. The woman is at the stove, her back to the room, and of the little girl there is now no sign. The man shows Charles to the table and pours him coffee from a painted china pot. An empty plate smeared with fat suggeststhat he himself has already breakfasted. “My name is Sewerin,” says the man, “Dr Jonas Sewerin. I am the medical practitioner for this area. I was called here last night to attend a patient.”
    “Charles Maddox,” replies Charles, rising quickly and extending his hand. “I am on a visit of business to the Baron.”
    But the man is already nodding. “I am aware of your name, and of your visit, even if I do not know its exact import.”
    The old woman comes to the table and slams down a metal plate of eggs and meat, and a heel of dark sinewy bread speckled with thin black seeds. Again, she will not meet his eye or speak, and Charles is surprised that the Baron’s tenants—for that is surely what this woman must be—show so little courtesy to one of his guests. But seeing his face, Sewerin forestalls him.
    “You must remember, Herr Maddox, that this is an isolated and unsophisticated part of the country, where the people have little to do but gossip, and the unknown gives rise not to curiosity, but fear.”
    Charles picks up his knife. “Are strangers such as myself really so rare?”
    Then suddenly, without warning, there is a horrific scream from somewhere