‘Do you know her name?’

‘No. But I think they would have remarked upon the nature of her injury sufficiently to identify her. No one with an enucleated eye was admitted last night.’

‘Why do you care? What has this got to do with you?’

‘I believe Waechter did it. I have reason to believe he is a Satanist. This may be connected to some kind of perverted ritual.’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Hugh Grant-Sissons. I knew your father.’

‘Yes, you said. Are you a doctor? Is that why they know you?’

‘No. I am an inventor. I worked with your father on some ideas for a new apparatus that could have transformed medical science. Unfortunately, nothing came of it. Various unfortunate circumstances, including your father’s death, cut our enterprise short. Do you not find it strange that there is no record of her admittance?’ To Quinn, the abrupt change of tack seemed indicative of a dislocated mind.

‘She must have been taken to a different hospital.’

‘That will be a simple matter for you and your officers to confirm.’

‘Are you still following me?’

‘How could I be following you when I was here before you?’

‘What if you were the one who attacked her?’

The furrow in Grant-Sissons’s brow seemed to ripple and deepen, as if the invisible hatchet that had caused it had landed a second, firmer blow. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Revenge.’

‘To the best of my knowledge, that poor girl has never done anything to me. Indeed, I have no idea who she is.’

‘That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean. This is an attack on Waechter.’

Grant-Sissons took some time to consider this. At length, he decided on his answer. ‘On the contrary. It will do no harm to the success of his film whatsoever. In fact, if my understanding of the baseness of human nature is correct, it will serve to promote considerable public interest in Herr Waechter and his odious films. As that is the last thing I want, I think you must agree that I am the last person who would carry out this attack.’

‘Why do you hate Waechter so much?’

‘Oh, I don’t hate him any more than I hate them all. Every single person who has profited from my invention – for which I never received a penny, may I say. My ideas were stolen from me by Edison. I have devoted my life since to exposing this injustice and reclaiming what is mine by rights.’

‘So do you picket every screening of every film?’

‘Not every. I cannot be everywhere. But there are other reasons for objecting to Waechter. He is a degenerate pervert. He cannot go back to Austria because he is wanted there for buggery.’

Quinn suppressed a smile. ‘I thought it was for duelling?’

‘That is a pretext. And as for that creature Porrick – in many ways he is even worse. He caused a man’s death, you know.’

‘Really?’ As always, Quinn’s interest in a person was piqued by an association with death.

‘Yes. He had a workman solder a tin trunk shut.’

‘How did that cause his death?’

‘The trunk contained film stock, which as you know is made from highly flammable cellulose nitrate. One spark was enough to send the whole thing up in flames. The poor fellow was working in a tiny basement room, the way out blocked by more film stock, all of which caught fire. He didn’t stand a chance.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘I make it my business. This industry was spawned from my invention. Creatures like Porrick would be nothing without me. Naturally, I follow news of their doings closely.’

‘What exactly was it you invented?’

‘I invented the mechanism that allows the staggered passage of a roll of sensitized film through a metal gate, at the same time as activating a synchronized shutter, so that a rapid series of photographs may be taken – and by the same mechanism, projected. In layman’s terms, I invented the motion picture camera and projector. I have here a copy of a letter I sent to Thomas Edison in 1889, together with the reply, which proves that they received it even though they claimed that the plans I enclosed were impracticable. So impracticable that, in the following year, they produced a machine which is in all essentials identical to mine!’

The hand that was not hidden behind his back delved into the inside of his jacket. After a moment of struggling, Grant-Sissons waved a set of greasy, well-thumbed papers in front of Quinn’s nose.

Quinn couldn’t help raising an objection. ‘Why did you send him your plans? Wasn’t he … a rival?’

Grant-Sissons withdrew the documents, without giving Quinn a chance to read them, and one-handedly replaced them with as much difficulty as he had taken them out. ‘Some ideas are greater than petty rivalry. I was hoping for his financial support. I thought he would recognize me as a fellow inventor. I thought he would realize the potential of my ideas and fund my business. Oh, he saw the potential all right.’

‘Forgive me for saying so, Mr Grant-Sissons, but it seems to me that you were a little naive.’

Grant-Sissons seemed to take offence at this. And a moment later proved that he did at least have the instinct for revenge. ‘Shall I tell you why your father took his own life?’ There was a sadistic edge to his voice.

Quinn had been on the verge of taking the man in as a suspect. But he was deterred by the prospect of discovering at last the information that had for so long tormented him. Furthermore, he had to accept that without the girl, there was little to charge anyone with. ‘I am in the middle of conducting an investigation.’

‘It won’t take a moment.’

‘Tell me where I can find you. When I am ready, I will come to you.’

Again, his one visible hand probed his coat, on the other side this time, his left hand bending back into the left breast. It was evidently too difficult for him to achieve this manipulation. His right hand involuntarily came round to help. Quinn saw that it was bandaged. With both hands, Grant-Sissons was able to fish out a card. He withdrew the bandaged hand from sight immediately. ‘This is my workshop. I am often there. When I am not … elsewhere.’

Quinn declined the offered card. ‘What happened to your hand?’

‘It is an old injury. In fact, a skin condition for which I must seek regular treatment. I have just had it dressed at the hospital. So you see, I did not come here with the intention of looking for your girl. It is simply a coincidence that I happened to be here.’

Quinn endeavoured to communicate his deep mistrust of coincidences through some complex fluctuations of his brows. At last he deigned to take the card. It bore an address in Clerkenwell: 3, St John’s Passage.

‘I will be in touch.’ Quinn heard the reassuring insistence in his own voice, as if it were more important to Grant-Sissons to tell him what he knew than to Quinn to hear it.

‘You cannot bear it, can you? You cannot bear the truth.’

‘I must find the girl,’ said Quinn. But even to his own ears it sounded like an excuse.

TWENTY-NINE

Scudder was trapped inside the darkness. He couldn’t move at all. The darkness struck him against the snout whenever he tried to spring out of it. And when he scratched his paw against the darkness, it was hard. Not like the darkness through which he was used to scampering, navigating with his twitching nose across the trade routes of scents. In this darkness, his feet tapped and scraped without him getting anywhere. And the only scent was that of his own fear.

All he could do was open his jaws and let the fear and the rage snap and whine in the tensioned sinews of his throat.

He turned and twisted in the tiny black corner of darkness. There had to be a way out. There was always a way out. If you pushed with your snout or scratched with your paw, whatever was in front of you would eventually yield.

But there was no yielding in this darkness. This darkness held him in its jaws. This darkness held his howls too, and the smell of his fear. And the smell of his fear made him more afraid.