I heard about this place in a letter. I wanted to return the writing case to Mr Langham. I have his things. I have to meet him. I’m writing a book.

‘I … I found the gate. It was open.’

‘No.’ She was shaking her head, coming towards him with the cleaver. ‘No, there is nothing for you here. You have to leave.’

She knows who I am, Sam realized. The next second she had grabbed him by the wrist and was dragging him towards a back door that gave on to the gardens.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said, trying to free his arm. She had a strong grip, her fingers bloodied from meat, sticky from the onions. ‘I’ve got to see him, please.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The old man who sent me the letters. A. Arthur Langham!’

The woman stopped. Her expression changed, anger and confusion giving way to fear. ‘No,’ she said, shoving him forwards. ‘No, you must go now.’

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ He was babbling. ‘It was you who I chased earlier, you collected the letters. Why won’t you talk to me?’

‘Please, please, just go, before—’

‘What is going on?’

The young woman froze. Sam felt her fingers tighten on his forearm. Together, they turned.

Someone was standing in the doorway. Through the floating dust, he saw grey streaked hair, a cream linen suit, a cigarette held in one sinewy hand. Deep brown eyes met his.

‘Samuel Hackett.’ A husky voice filled the kitchen. ‘You have your wish. It seems I shall have to introduce myself after all.’

Part Three

Third Degree

Take a jigger of Plymouth gin and a pony of French vermouth. Into this add four dashes of absinthe. Shake and strain into an old-fashioned whisky glass. Of a challenging and potent nature.

I would love to say that once I found Langham, my life ran smoothly on its tracks. I would love to say that after I arrived at Dar Portuna, all my hillsides were oregano, all my dishes were flowers and whipped cream.

But that’s not how it was.

I remember so well the smell of the kitchen that night: boiling milk and old lard, half-rancid fish offcuts and discarded onion skin. I remember too the mess that the hired chef – who had scarpered as soon as dinner was served – had left behind for some poor servant to clear. Bad workmanship. I observed as much to Langham’s man, Bouzid, who had showed me to the kitchen.

He only grunted. ‘You have what you need?’