Page 159 of Troubled Blood

“Can you remember how Gwilherm thought he’d killed the doctor?” he asked Deborah.

“He said his magic killed her, then took her away.”

“Took her away, did it?”

Samhain’s bedroom door suddenly opened again and he trudged back into the room, holding a coverless book in his hand.

“Deborah, is this My-Dad-Gwilherm’s magic book, is it?”

“That’s it,” said Deborah.

She’d finished her hot chocolate, now. Setting down the empty mug, she picked up her crochet again.

Samhain held the book wordlessly out to Strike. Though the cover had come off, the title page was intact: The Magus by Francis Barrett. Strike had the impression that being shown this book was a mark of esteem, and he therefore flicked through it with an expression of deep interest, his main objective to keep Samhain happy and close at hand for further questioning.

A few pages inside was a brown smear. Strike halted the cascade of pages to examine it more closely. It was, he suspected, dried blood, and had been wiped across a few lines of writing.

This I will say more, to wit, that those who walk in their sleep, do, by no other guide than the spirit of the blood, that is, of the outward man, walk up and down, perform business, climb walls and manage things that are otherwise impossible to those that are awake.

“You can do magic, with that book,” said Samhain. “But it’s my book, because it was My-Dad-Gwilherm’s, so it’s mine now,” and he held out his hand before Strike could examine it any further, suddenly jealous of his possession. When Strike handed it back, Samhain clutched the book to his chest with one hand and bent to take a third chocolate biscuit.

“No more, Sammy,” said Deborah.

“I went in the rain and got them,” said Samhain loudly. “I can have what I want. Silly woman. Stupid woman.”

He kicked the ottoman, but it hurt his bare foot, and this increased his sudden, childish anger. Pink-faced and truculent, he looked around the room: Strike suspected he was looking for something to disarrange, or perhaps break. His choice landed on the budgies.

“I’ll open the cage,” he threatened his mother, pointing at it. He let The Magus fall onto the sofa as he clambered onto the seat, looming over Strike.

“No, don’t,” said Deborah, immediately distressed. “Don’t do that, Sammy!”

“And I’ll open the window,” said Samhain, now trying to walk his way along the sofa seats, but blocked by Strike. “Hahaha. You stupid woman.”

“No—Samhain, don’t!” said Deborah, frightened.

“You don’t want to open the cage,” said Strike, standing up and moving in front of it. “You wouldn’t want your budgies to fly away. They won’t come back.”

“I know they won’t,” said Samhain. “The last ones didn’t.”

His anger seemed to subside as fast as it had come, in the face of rational opposition. Still standing on the sofa, he said grumpily, “I went out in the rain. I got them.”

“Have you got Clare’s phone number?” Strike asked Deborah.

“In the kitchen,” she said, without asking why he wanted it.

“Can you show me where that is?” Strike asked Samhain, although he knew perfectly well. The whole flat was as big as Irene Hickson’s sitting room. Samhain frowned at Strike’s midriff for a few moments, then said,

“All right, then.”

He walked the length of the sofa, jumped off the end with a crash that made the bookcase shake, and then lunged for the biscuits.

“Hahaha,” he taunted his mother, both hands full of Penguins. “I got them. Silly woman. Stupid woman.”

He walked out of the room.

As Strike inched back out of the space between ottoman and sofa, he stooped to pick up The Magus, which Samhain had dropped, and slid it under his coat. Crocheting peacefully by the window, Deborah Athorn noticed nothing.

A short list of names and numbers was attached to the kitchen wall with a drawing pin. Strike was pleased to see that several people seemed interested in Deborah and Samhain’s welfare.