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Diligently, Henry looks. Up close he sees the shelves are encased behind glass doors, the surfaces shining, devoid completely of dust. He cranes his head, takes the books in shelf by shelf, reminded of that obscure Piccadilly bookshop. The seller told him while he was wrapping the dictionary that some of his stock was so old it was best for their preservation to be kept behind glass, and so Henry wonders now just how old these volumes are. He steps closer to read the spines. On some, the leather is so cracked with age it makes the words almost unintelligible, but others are clearly wrought in gilt lettering: Compendium Rarissimum Totius, Petit Albert, Libro de San Cipriano, Epistolae Theosophicae …

Expensive, these. The contents of one bookcase alone would have cost him several years’ rent. Henry clears his throat.

‘Indeed. They are beautiful volumes.’

‘Oh, they are far more than that,’ comes the answer. ‘Beautiful, yes, but what they contain …’ Lord Tresilian shakes his head a little. ‘There is something to be said about esoteric philosophy and the ancient sciences. The old world, you see, has endless wonders just waiting to be discovered. I have,’ he continues, ‘at least two hundred books on necronomics and ancient religious practices, on classical invocations, hermetic philosophy, Babylonian mysticism … I discovered my first in Italy –’ here he points to a volume on a top shelf, though there are so many that it is impossible to make out which precisely he refers to – ‘and it set about a lifelong fascination. Each place I went I made it a quest of mine to discover a new text. The bookshops in Athens are quite remarkable, as are those in Rome and Montpellier, but it’s off the beaten track in Brandenburg that I found some of my most valuable pieces.’

He presses the silver ball of his cane.

‘Many were difficult to acquire.’ He pauses, clears his throat, and Henry hears within it a wet, thick-sounding bubble. ‘Still, I have my sources now, all over Europe.’

Henry nods at the larger book, resting high on its plinth. ‘And this?’

‘Ah,’ Lord Tresilian breathes. ‘This.’

He moves behind the cavernous desk to stand in front of that middle bookcase, reaches out, touches the glass protecting the book with an almost-caress. His fingertips have a clubbed appearance, the nails curving downward, and Henry realises then why his host’s face holds such an odd pallor.

Lord Tresilian is a dying man.

‘This,’ he says softly, ‘is very special to me. Very special indeed.’

Henry waits for him to elaborate but when he does not, only stares admiringly at the book behind its glass casing, Henry comes to stand beside his new employer.

Until that moment the light from the room was thrown upon the glass, but now he stands before it Henry can see the thing clearly. It is a great tome of a book bound in thick black leather, a gold clasp holding its gilt-edged pages shut. He bends closer; a raised symbol juts from the cover, set in a circle that spans the width of the front. It is the exact replica of the one above the fireplace in the vestibule, and the wax seal on the letter offering him employment at Penhelyg:

Henry means to ask what the symbol is but Lord Tresilian coughs, pointing at another item which rests at the base of the book, a piece of rock on a small square of black velvet.

‘You see this?’

‘I do.’

The man turns to him with another proud smile. ‘Gold.’

Henry frowns. His host chuckles.

‘Of course, it does not look like gold, but see at the bottom those tiny flecks of yellow? It was the first we found in the mines. Near thirty years ago now.’

‘I see.’

At that moment a yawn threatens to escape, and Henry must press a hand to his mouth to shield it.

‘Forgive me, sir, I—’

‘No, no, please forgive me. Here I am wittering away while you’re barely able to stand. Come,’ Lord Tresilian says, steering Henry once more to the other end of the room. ‘You’ve had a long journey, I quite understand.’

Henry is ushered into a large armchair of red damask in front of the fire. The older man settles down into his own armchair opposite, carefully crosses one long leg over the other so as not to disturb the small table set between the chairs, and Henry does not miss the wince of pain as he does. If Lord Tresilian is indeed ailing as he suspects, then he can be forgiven for finding whatever pleasures he can, eccentric as they are, and so, feeling a little guilty for his less than enthused responses, Henry remarks, ‘It truly is a vast collection. Surely you did not procure them all on a single tour of the Continent?’

His lordship smiles, dips his head. ‘I did not. I only purchased three from that first excursion, but the Tour gave me a taste for adventure and for many years I journeyed all over the world. Indeed, I was very well-travelled. I should like to be again. Alas, my health does not allow it.’

There is a pause then in which the older man places his clubbed fingers together.

‘A canker in my lungs, I’m afraid.’

Here, at least, is an answer to one of his unasked questions. Henry looks at the man’s fingertips. The illness must be approaching its zenith, if the severity of his malformation is anything to judge by.

‘What have you been advised?’

A grimace. ‘That it is deeply rooted, and an operation will be of little use.’