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assault on Captain Craddock and offered twenty pounds for information that led to the discovery and conviction of his assailants. I examined each detail on the poster. My eyes lingered on the amount.
    When I got home I went down to the kitchen. Miss Joyce was at work near the stove, attending to a pot of bubbling stock. She had already arranged a tray to bring up to my father, containing a glass of claret, an empty soup bowl and a folded newspaper.
    The front-page article dealt with the Craddock case. I paused at the table and began to read.
    Miss Joyce noticed me and said, ‘I believe that poor man is at death’s door.’
    It didn’t say so in the report. ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘His housekeeper is a friend of mine. Mrs Skerritt.’
    ‘Did she see what happened?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Does Captain Craddock have any family?’
    She looked at me over her shoulder. This was the most I had spoken to her in several weeks. ‘I believe he lives alone.’ She used the sides of her apron to carry the pot over to the table, and ladled some soup into the bowl. ‘Why do you ask?’
    ‘I just feel sorry for the man.’
    She picked up the tray. ‘I must bring this to your father.’
    If I discovered some small piece of information about the attack, I could bring it directly to Sibthorpe and perhaps claim the reward. I went up to the study and retrieved a Dublin almanac, only a few years old. Its binding was of red leather with a paper inlay of marbled ink. I flicked through the pages, then scanned the list of addresses under ‘Nobility, gentry, merchants and traders’. The tip of my finger traced down the Cs to: ‘Craddock, Captain Nathaniel, 41 Leeson Street, lower’. There could be no harm in having a look. I found a hat, buttoned my coat and went to investigate.
    It rained as I walked over, and water dripped from a pediment beneath the stained-glass fanlight of Craddock’s home. Passing hansom cabs sprayed mud on the uneven pavement where I stood, impeding pedestrians. A moment after I knocked, the polished brass letter box opened and shut with a metallic click before the door was pulled slightly ajar.
    ‘Mrs Skerritt?’ The woman inside nodded, and opened the door further. Without pretence I told her I wished to enquire about the attack on her employer. The woman rubbed her hands nervously, as if she had been in distress before my arrival, and surprised me by asking directly if I had come from the Castle. I thought that an odd assumption to make, but I had arrived at an opportune moment.
    Without hesitation I said, ‘Yes.’
    ‘For once your timing is good. I was about to send word.’ She said the Captain had regained consciousness for the first time since the assault, though he was driven to distraction by the agony of his injuries. ‘He groans and struggles to breathe. I fear he cannot survive long.’
    ‘In that case I should ask him about his attackers at once.’ I walked past her into the hallway. ‘Is he alone?’
    Her eyes darted to me, perhaps with suspicion.
    ‘I mean is he attended by his physician?’ She shook her head. ‘Then the best thing you can do, Mrs Skerritt, is fetch the doctor and inform him of the change in condition. I will glean what information I can and make sure Captain Craddock is comfortable in your absence.’
    She considered this for a moment. The concern for her employer was overriding, so she fetched a shawl and departed. I was left in the gloom of the hallway with the echo of its closed door.
    I climbed the stairs in search of Craddock. The first-floor drawing room had been converted into a bedroom, and there was a thick crack in the wood beside the keyhole. I gave the door a nudge and it swung inward loosely.
    Familiar odours assailed me, reminding me of my father’s chamber. Craddock’s iron bed was positioned between a shuttered window and the hearth. Two duelling pistols were mounted above the fireplace, crossed at the barrel. A small bedside table