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here, sir.’ The last word sounded like an afterthought. ‘I’ll see if Mr Lorimore is expecting you.’
    The butler’s footsteps echoed off into the house and George waited close inside the door. The hall was wider than the biggest room in George’s house, and had more furniture crammed into it than George possessed in total. But he was too used to the impressive space and furnishings of the British Museum to feel intimidated. Instead he spent the time he was alone looking with interest at the display cases that lined one whole side of the hall.
    The first few were disconcerting. They were glass-fronted, mounted on the wall. Glassy eyes stared out. They seemed to follow George as he walked slowlyalong. From inside each and every case, a stuffed animal watched him. One was a fox, its teeth glinting sharply in the dark maw of its mouth. Then a family of mice, nestling in a home of straw. Cats, dogs, birds … All manner of creatures were frozen within the glass cages. Each and every one stared at George in an uncomfortably accusing manner.
    The last animal was another bird, which strutted somewhat precariously inside its relatively large environment. It looked ungainly yet somehow assured. It had a bulbous body and head, with a feathery tuft for a tail. Its beak was hooked and on another bird might have looked savage and threatening. But here it merely added to the whole faintly ridiculous shape. George examined the creature through the glass, wondering where it might have come from. There was no label or clue on the case.
    Soon, George was standing before the last display case. From here on down the rest of the hallway, the wall was lined with low, narrow tables, each holding a display. At first he had thought that these too were bizarre examples of taxidermy. On the first table stood a figure about a foot tall which stared out at the world as if daring anyone to approach. It was a monkey, standing on its hind legs and dressed in an army uniform, complete with cap. In its tiny paw, the monkey was holding a cigarette.
    But it was not a stuffed animal. George could seenow that it was made of wood and metal. A superb sculpture that caricatured the form of the real animal and emphasised the more human aspects. The figure stood on a small plinth, and in the plinth George could see a keyhole. An automaton he realised – once wound up the monkey would perform some trick or go through a series of predefined clockwork actions. He forgot his unease at the stuffed animals, and began to look forward to meeting Augustus Lorimore.
    â€˜It was constructed by a Frenchman called Thierry.’ The voice was taut and nasal and quiet. It startled George.
    He turned quickly to find a man standing beside him. The man was almost as tall as the butler, but incredibly thin. His suit fitted his skeletal form immaculately. His neck was sinewed, and the skin of his face was stretched like parchment over the bones so that the shape of his skull was distinctly visible. He was, George supposed, in his fifties. His hair was the colour of newly wrought iron. His eyes were almost the same colour, and seemed to burn with intelligence and passion.
    â€˜Mr Lorimore?’ George guessed.
    â€˜Mr Archer,’ Lorimore replied. ‘They executed him, you know.’
    â€˜I’m sorry – who?’
    â€˜Thierry.’ Lorimore was holding a key. The tiny piece of metal was almost lost in the man’s long bony fingersas he slotted it into the plinth and turned it carefully. ‘He was a murderer, of course,’ Lorimore added as he wound the mechanism. ‘But you would think that the ability to produce something as beautiful as this, as elegant and engineered …’ He clicked his tongue, feeling round the base of the automaton for a switch or lever. ‘Well,’ he continued as he stepped back, ‘you would think it should count for something, wouldn’t you?’
    â€˜Er, yes,’