“It’s time I spoke to your superintendent.”

“Good luck with that,” Stephen Reed said.

THE MAN waxed his mustache. In Sebastian’s book, that was never a good sign. His name was George Hartley and he accepted Sebastian’s credentials at a glance, without seeming to be impressed by them.

“I know the Visitor’s role,” he said. “It’s to protect the business affairs of lunatics. What have you to offer me? I can spare you five minutes.”

“I fear that a wider issue is being overlooked.”

“You think so? Convince me.”

“I have a list of earlier incidents from this area. All of them with some aspect in common with your case.”

“I’ve seen your list. There are no actual murders on it. Whereas for this one I have a culprit, and I have his confession.”

“A confession from an ill-educated man who’s probably yet to grasp, in any meaningful way, that his eagerness to comply with his captors will send him to a hanging.”

“His education has nothing to do with it.”

“There are many similarities between this and the one fully documented case on that paper.”

“And many differences, too.”

“They don’t undo the comparison, or make it any less valid. I think they give a tantalizing picture of a madman’s mental process. The differences make sense if you take them as evidence of an evolving state of mind.”

Sebastian went on to explain. With Evangeline and Grace, their assailant had tied their hands and thrown them alive into a gorse-filled gully on a forlorn part of the moor. He had not killed them, but had surely meant for them to die. It was the action of a man who wanted a certain result, but not to feel responsibility for it. He did not consider himself a murderer. By some peculiar logic, he probably felt that he could avoid guilt by being elsewhere when death finally came.

It was their survival and return that had forced a change in his method the next time. Only luck had saved him from discovery. This time, he’d battered them to be sure. Bagging their heads had saved him from seeing their faces when he did it. He still did not consider himself a murderer. A man who killed when forced to it, perhaps. But in his mind the fault lay with the forces, not with him.

On both occasions, Sir Owain Lancaster had entered the story uninvited and shown his concern for the victims. He was a prominent local figure, and both discoveries had been made on land that was part of his estate. But the fact that he blamed imaginary creatures, and was now under investigation by the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy, must surely call his innocence into question.

George Hartley said, “There’s nothing here I haven’t heard before. What’s your game, Mister Becker? What exactly were you sent here to achieve?”

“I’ll be open with you, sir. My task was to establish whether Sir Owain Lancaster is merely a harmless fantasist or a man capable of expressing his madness by causing suffering in others.”

“And you have not done so. Good day to you, sir.”

THEN SEBASTIAN and Stephen Reed took a shortcut up a winding flight of steps behind the Ship Hotel and the Methodist church to the houses above the town, with the intention of calling on Evangeline Bancroft.

She wasn’t at the house. No one was. Stephen Reed looked in the shed, and her bicycle was there.

“Perhaps she’s meeting her mother for lunch,” Sebastian suggested.

“Perhaps,” Stephen Reed said.

They went down to the library. There were four or five browsers, and one reader at the tables. Lydia Bancroft was busy in the restricted section, where the rare editions and the mildly racy subjects kept company on the shelves. She was visibly pleased to see Stephen Reed. Less pleased to see Sebastian. And she had surprising news for them.

“Evangeline’s already gone,” she said.

“Gone where?” Stephen Reed said.

“She took an early train back to London. She asked me to give you this.”

She held out an envelope with Stephen Reed’s name on it. The young policeman hesitated, and then took it. He hooked his little finger under the flap and tore it open to read there and then.

As Stephen Reed moved aside, Sebastian said to Lydia Bancroft, “I’m sorry that I missed her. We had something of great importance to discuss. Can you give me your daughter’s address in London?”

“I’m sorry,” Lydia said. “She specifically asked me not to.”

“The address of her employer, then?”

“That, too. She doesn’t want you contacting her at all, Mister Becker. No one appreciates being misled. Everyone knows who you are now. You’re the special investigator to the Lord Chancellor’s Visitor in Lunacy. You didn’t come here to save children. You came here to harass a decent man with a view to depriving him of his liberty.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Sebastian said.

“And I’m sure you imagine that’s an apology,” Lydia Bancroft said. She turned to Stephen Reed, who was now replacing Evangeline’s letter in its envelope.

“Stephen,” she said, “if you want to write to Evangeline, I can forward any letters.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bancroft,” Stephen Reed said, and gave a glance to Sebastian that suggested they should leave.

OUTSIDE ON the street, he gave Evangeline’s note to Sebastian.

In black ink with a neat hand, she had written,

I learned this morning that the police have their man and that is that. This alone would not have caused me to leave without further discussion, but I have to tell you that I do not appreciate the efforts of Mr Becker to make me his spy against a troubled man who has shown nothing but kindness to many. For you, Stephen, I will simply tell you this: you asked me to say if I remembered anything, and I think I have. I remember that Sir Owain came to the house after Grace and I had been found. I was lying in bed with that peculiar feeling one has when trying to remember a dream. I heard him speaking to my mother downstairs. I think he may have offered her some money in an act of simple charity. I expect he was more prosperous then. But my mother would not accept his offer. If he made the same financial gesture to Grace’s father, I expect he drank it. Please watch out for Grace, and do not allow Dr Sibley to drive her from her father’s land. She is a sad soul, and she has suffered enough

.

Sebastian said, “We can’t lose her. There’s too much at stake. An innocent man will hang and more children will probably suffer. I have an idea.”

BUT THE local postmistress was unable to give them Evangeline’s London address, even though she must have hand-franked a hundred or more of Lydia Bancroft’s letters. Sebastian had a suspicion that she’d been warned and wasn’t being entirely honest with them. She could remember that it was somewhere in Holborn, she said, but was blank on the name of the street.

“Thank you, anyway,” Stephen Reed said. “And please don’t tell Mrs. Bancroft that we were asking.”

He’d already assured Sebastian that Lydia Bancroft would learn of their ruse before the day was out.

Sebastian said to the postmistress, “I understand you keep a monster book. A book of beasts?”

“I put it out in the holiday weeks,” the postmistress told him. “For visitors to read.”

“Did Florence Bell and Molly Button ever come in and look at it?”

“I expect they did,” she said. “All the children do.”

At his request, she brought it out. It was a scrapbook of handwritten stories and newspaper clippings, going back over some thirty years. He skipped the stories, which were mostly inconclusive observations, secondhand reports, or obvious fabrication. Some way back in the book he found something that caught his attention, a yellowed cutting from the area’s local newspaper. The glue that fixed it to the album was old and discolored, and was showing through. But the print was still readable.