‘But what about the diseases we get around here?’ asked Vorontsov. ‘Inflammation of the brain? Or the bowel? Or fever? Would one thousandth of a grain of that sulphate of quinine Dr Lee showed us working today have done the trick, eh? What do you think, Lee?’

‘In my experience, a large dose will always arrest the fevers almost instantaneously,’ replied the doctor calmly. ‘I have tried with smaller doses, as have others, and the results are ineffectual.’

Aleksei said little. His instinctive view on homeopathy was to note that doctors charged their patients by the hour, but paid for their medicines by the grain. But he was prepared to listen to the two experts. As an individual, he trusted Wylie more, but Lee appeared to be the more rigorous scientist. Again, that had echoes of Cain. Could they be one and the same man?

At one point, Dr Tarasov posed a somewhat less controversial question. ‘Doesn’t the term “homeopathic” originally relate to a form of black magic?’

‘It still does,’ muttered Lee, but before Wylie could rise to his bait, Vorontsov answered the question more fully.

‘It does indeed. Traditionally there are three types of magic: homeopathic, sympathetic and contagious.’ He glanced at the surprised expressions around the table and chose to explain himself. ‘All nonsense, of course, but some of the Tatars still believe it, so it’s worth understanding.’

‘And what’s the distinction?’ asked Tarasov.

‘Homeopathic is imitation. The tribe want to catch a deer, so they put on a sort of play in which they catch a deer – the creature itself is played by one of their own. The next day, if the magic works, life imitates art and all eat heartily. Sympathetic is similar, but the object of the magic is represented by some kind of doll or effigy. You stab the doll, and the person it represents falls ill.’

‘And contagious?’ It was the tsar who asked.

‘Contagious magic is where you take something from the victim’s body – hair or nail clippings often – and through them, the witch can control the person from which they came.’

‘So watch out next time you go to the barber,’ said Lee.

‘Often a severed body-part may be used,’ continued Vorontsov, ‘a finger or a toe.’

Aleksei’s thumb ran over the stumps on his left hand. There had been no magic, but Kyesha had used the remains of his severed fingers to control him, to bring him down here as an agent of revenge. Lost in his own thoughts, he scarcely listened to the rest of the count’s explanation, his ears only pricking when he heard the final word.

‘Or it can be a bodily fluid, such as semen – or, very often, blood.’

After the cigars had been handed out, Aleksei managed to isolate Lee and sound him out.

‘You argue your points well,’ he said as an opener. ‘I can imagine you speaking in front of the Royal Society.’ It was taking a chance to speak so glibly about an organization of which he knew little.

‘Well, thank you, Colonel,’ replied the doctor. ‘Sadly, I have not yet had the honour of speaking there, but when I return to London, I hope to make my mark.’

‘You’ll be acquainted with a compatriot of yours who’s also been working in these parts. A gentleman by the name of Cain – a fellow of the Society, I believe.’

‘Richard Cain is here – in the Crimea?’ exclaimed Lee. Both Dr Wylie and the tsar looked over towards them, presumably not just at the raised voice.

‘So I believe. You know him?’

‘I’ve read his work – a brilliant man. Perhaps a little too enthusiastic as a vivisectionist, but sometimes there are prices that must be paid.’

Count Vorontsov joined them, and the conversation moved on. Aleksei’s best guess was that Lee was what he seemed to be. For a start, he could see no motivation in one man leading a double life as both Cain and Lee. Russia was not short of British émigrés, particularly doctors, as Wylie exemplified. But if Lee was to be trusted, then it meant that Cain was a real person; an Englishman, a scientist and Fellow of the Royal Society. On the other hand, it might just be a case of stolen identity; some imposter writing the name in the notebook and using it to sign the letters in the safe assumption that the real Richard L. Cain was never likely to set foot across the English Channel.

‘An interesting correlation with the notebook, don’t you think, Colonel?’ It was Wylie who spoke to him. Vorontsov and Lee were now talking to Diebich.

‘The quinine you mean?’ asked Aleksei.

‘That too, but I was referring to the story of the oopir.’ Aleksei looked at him quizzically. ‘Utter nonsense that a second stabbing would resurrect it, I’m sure you’ll agree,’ continued Wylie.

‘I would assume so,’ said Aleksei. He could not recall ever having stabbed a voordalak twice, though on one occasion he had attacked with so jagged a piece of wood that it was impossible to say how many times the creature’s heart had been pierced.

‘I know so,’ said Wylie, interrupting his thoughts.

‘How?’ asked Aleksei, making no attempt to disguise his astonishment.

‘It’s in Cain’s book,’ said the doctor grimly. ‘Cain heard that story and decided to investigate it. He repeated the experiment on three separate occasions. Without exception, the creatures remained dead.’

It struck Aleksei for the first time what a profoundly useful thing Cain’s notebook might prove to be. So many times he had relied on folklore, on his grandmother’s dark tales of fabulous beasts, to inform him of how he might deal with these creatures. Cain turned superstition into science, and with it brought certainty. Aleksei realized he had been wooed by Kyesha, who by his very nature must take the side of his kin. But in the ultimate analysis, was Cain doing good or ill? As with all learning, it was not the knowledge itself that could be classified as good or evil, but how it was utilized.

Now was the first real chance that Aleksei had had to discuss the notebook with Wylie. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask. The one he started with was of a very general nature. ‘You’ve read it all now?’

‘I have,’ replied Wylie. ‘And with every word I have become more and more astounded. If you hadn’t shown me the effect of light on the creature’s skin – I can only assume that is what the binding is made from – I would have taken the whole thing as some perverted joke. The words on the cover are almost a warning – tattooed, I believe, by the way.’

‘Tattooed?’

‘On to the living skin of the vampire before it was flayed.’

Aleksei felt his stomach tighten. ‘My God!’ he muttered.

‘This Richard Cain is a strange man indeed.’

‘I suspected briefly that he and Dr Lee might be one and the same; both English, both scientists.’

‘It’s not that bloody difficult for you people, is it?’ said Wylie, with a mocking snarl.

‘What?’

‘Robert Lee is not English. He’s as Scottish as I am.’

After that the party travelled on to Baidar and then Sevastopol. In Aleksei’s opinion, the tsar overworked himself, visiting fortresses, hospitals and dockyards and even inspecting the Black Sea Fleet. On the other hand, they were closing in on Bakhchisaray – filling his day would make the time go faster, or at least not allow his mind time to dwell on what was to come. Close to Balaklava, he rode out ten versts on horseback to pray at the monastery of Saint George. Aleksei was reminded of the statue back in Petersburg, of Aleksandr’s great-great-grandfather, Pyotr, styled – as Aleksei saw it – after Saint George. Perhaps those associations Aleksei had made with the symbol of the serpent beneath his feet were beginning to come true. The tsar could know nothing of those connections, but somehow he instinctively took comfort from that famous, dragon-slaying saint.

‘And before you even think about it,’ Dr Wylie had said to him after Colonel Salomka had mentioned the monastery to which the tsar was riding, ‘my country’s patron saint is Saint Andrew. Saint George is the saint of the English.’