Then he turned away and walked up the track to the car. The driver was beside it, pulling glass out of the door frame and examining his coachwork for further damage.

As Sebastian drew close, the driver looked up angrily and said, “How stupid was that? As if I didn’t warn you.”

“I know,” Sebastian said. “Forgive me. I never listen.”

He swept broken glass from the leather seat, and they continued their journey. The remainder of it was undertaken in silence—or as close to silence as could be achieved, save for the noise of the car’s engine and the wind that whistled in through the broken window.

The car might be damaged. But not so damaged, Sebastian thought, as the young woman who’d thrown the rock at it.

OWAIN LANCASTER had been born the son of a Welsh corn merchant. As a young man he’d been sent away to study the law in Manchester, but an interest in science and engineering had prevailed, particularly in its application to long-range artillery. He’d sold the rights to his first arms patent, an improved breech-sliding mechanism for field guns, for thirty pounds. After seeing how much money it made for its new title holders, he never signed away another.

He’d risen to own foundries and factories and a shipyard, and had bought Arnside Hall and its estate from a bankrupt family some twenty-five years before. He’d meant it for a summer retreat and had spent a considerable amount on rebuilding the house and installing the most modern conveniences: ducted heating, electricity from its own plant, the first telephone in the county. Now he’d sold his London house and lived here all the time.

Sir Owain’s entire life had been material proof of the value of science, a triumph of the rational. It had brought him a fortune, a fellowship in the Royal Society, and a reputation that, with a single publication, he’d managed to destroy almost overnight.

Where insanity threatened a fortune, the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy was obliged to intercede. Distant relatives, alarmed at the endangerment of riches they might someday hope to share in, had written to the Lord Chancellor’s office raising questions over Sir Owain’s ability to manage his affairs. Their letter had been passed to Sir James, whose first move had been to send his man—Sebastian’s predecessor, now retired—to investigate and report.

The drive ascended through farmland to grouse moor, and then from grouse moor to managed forest. Its last mile was up a narrowing valley, winding and switching until Arnside Hall came into view at the top of it.

It was a strange building. Half doll’s house, half castle, perched atop an enormous rockery where a waterfall spilled down to a trout lake below. Sebastian looked up at it through the Daimler’s good window and felt something between a chill and a thrill. After selling off his business interests at loss-making prices, Sir Owain had retreated here to live off his patents. As the income from these began to decline, his inventions superseded by newer technologies, he’d let estate staff go and allowed the building and its grounds to deteriorate.

Rich man’s retreat or madman’s hideaway?

Soon, Sebastian hoped to know.

ORIGINALLY, THE HOUSE HAD BEEN A LODGE. IT HAD BEEN EXPANDED by more than one architect into something of a visual mishmash, its roofline a forest of chimneys and gables of different designs. It had bowed windows and Gothic windows and a bit of Tudor half-timbering thrown in here and there, with the final entry into the main courtyard being achieved through an archway that could have been lifted intact from a cathedral apse.

The courtyard itself was like the setting for an opera, with windows, outlooks, and balconies at every level and of every imaginable character. Here, with a carriage turn before it, was the main door of the house.

On the steps to the main doors, Sir Owain Lancaster waited to meet the car. As before, he was not alone. Behind him, lurking in the background like a diffident Iago, came Dr. Hubert Sibley.

The car stopped before the entranceway. The driver exchanged a few words with his employer, presumably to account for the damage to his vehicle, before returning to it and opening the door for Sebastian to step out.

Sir Owain did not offer his hand.

He said, “Permit me a grim smile at the irony of my position. I hold honors from three universities. My patents have amassed fortunes and my factories supply the armies of the world. But my fate and future happiness now lie in the hands of the watchdog to the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy.”

“There’s nothing about my presence that should make you feel threatened,” Sebastian said. “My function here is only to observe and advise.”

“And yet my liberty will depend on the advice that you give.”

“Think less of it as a matter of liberty, and more a matter of your well-being.”

“It’s very hard not to think about liberty when you face the prospect of losing it.”

With the pleasantries dispensed with, Sir Owain led the way inside.

The entrance hallway had a stone-flagged floor with a rug on it and light oak paneling on its walls. A wide stairway led to a gallery above.

On the short walk to Sir Owain’s study they passed a long glass case containing a scale model of a warship, the original of which had been built in one of Sir Owain’s yards. The air inside the house was colder than the air outside and had a musty odor. Sebastian saw no sign of any staff.

Sir Owain’s study was dominated by a large kneehole desk with a captain’s chair behind it. On the desk were a typewriting machine and a binocular microscope in brass. There was a wall of books, with a set of green baize steps for reaching the upper shelves.

Sebastian said, “Do you understand why it’s necessary for me to be here?”

Inviting Sebastian to sit while seating himself in the captain’s chair, Sir Owain said, “I understand that any man with the taint of madness and a fortune is fair game for the Masters of Lunacy. As little as fifty pounds a year or a thousand in the bank will get their attention.”

“You merely need to convince Sir James that you are competent to remain in charge of your own affairs.”

“Convince him? Or convince you?”

Sebastian waited.

Sir Owain went on, “Given that I must, I believe that I can. Doctor Sibley, here, is my constant companion and the guarantor of my sanity.”

By now, Dr. Hubert Sibley had joined Sir Owain behind the desk. He remained standing, more like a valet than a medical man.

Sebastian looked at Sir Owain again and said, “So do you consider yourself insane?”

“No,” Sir Owain said. “But I can understand why others might. Is that in itself not some kind of proof?”

Dr. Sibley then spoke up and said, “I have prepared you a full report of my observations and a fair copy of Sir Owain’s treatment diary.”

Sir Owain looked at him, and Sibley nodded. Then Sir Owain opened a desk drawer and took out a folder of typewritten papers, tied with a ribbon. He placed the folder on the desk and slid it toward Sebastian.

“My life is in these pages,” he said. “There is no part of it that is not subject to Doctor Sibley’s supervision. Whether it’s my health or my business or the management of the estate.”

“No part of it at all?”

“None.”

Sebastian was finding that Sibley’s presence made him vaguely uncomfortable. Not so much a man, more a slimy shadow. Hanging around in the corner like an undertaker’s mute.

He looked at the man and said, “Where are you living, Doctor?”

“I live here at the Hall,” Sibley replied, “with Sir Owain. Constant companion means exactly that.”