Take a pony of Italian vermouth and a pony of Calvados. Add a jigger of Cognac. Shake well with lump ice and strain into a cocktail glass. Drink before eleven a.m. to awake the dead.

Back then, it was impossible to tell what was real. We all of us had our masks, servant and lord, demimonde and diplomat. No matter that some of the masks were made from silk and diamonds, and others from sack and tailor’s chalk. They all worked the same. They all hid as much as they revealed.

The crowd at Dar Portuna was no exception. Lady Bailey’s mask was made from thin clouds of opium smoke, Bouzid’s from calm and stony silence. As for Langham … I couldn’t see his so clearly. After the gift of the book, I thought he might have sought me out for another conference. But one day became two, became three, and I barely saw him.

Often he was gone very early, where I didn’t know. Sometimes, he would appear on the landing upstairs when I could have sworn he was out. At other times, I would hear the gramophone playing in his study and peer through the window to find the room deserted.

There was no one I could question. Apart from Bouzid and me – and the women who came early in the mornings to clean – Langham kept no other staff. It seemed strange: according to The Gentleman’s Guide wealthy men were supposed to employ a household. There were whole chapters on how to get the best out of one’s valet, but Langham didn’t employ one of those either.

At the inn, people gave themselves away by their actions, by their words, by their tongues soaked in sangria. I saw none of that from Langham. And so, although I tried to wait and listen patiently, curiosity soon got the better of me.

It was my fifth day at the house, and I was beginning to find my stride in the kitchen, feel some tiny glimmer of security in my little servant’s bedroom. That morning, Lady Bailey went out on a call and Bouzid left to see to some business in town for an hour. Monsieur Langham, I had been informed, would not be back until evening. Evidently, they had decided I was trustworthy enough to leave alone. For the first time, Dar Portuna was mine, and I intended to take full advantage.

A minute after Bouzid closed the gate, I crept from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. My chest felt tighter than ever beneath the bindings, my ears straining for any sound of life. I hesitated, one foot raised. I had no reason to go up there; as at the inn, my room and my work were on the ground floor. Upstairs was a different realm. One that might spell trouble. The step creaked as I set my weight upon it.