At midnight they changed horses at the Haycock Inn at Wansford. Lascelles and Mr Norrell waited in the public parlour, a large, plain apartment with wood-panelled walls, a sanded floor and two great fireplaces.

The door opened and Childermass walked in. He went straight to Lascelles and addressed him in the following words: “Lucas says there is a letter from Drawlight telling what he has seen in Venice.”

Lascelles half-turned his head, but he did not look at Childermass.

“May I see it?” asked Childermass.

“I left it at Bruton-street,” said Lascelles.

Childermass looked a little surprized. “Very well then,” he said. “Lucas can fetch it. We will hire a horse for him here. He will catch up with us again before we reach Hurtfew.”

Lascelles smiled. “I said Bruton-street, did I not? But do you know? – I do not think it is there. I believe I left it at the inn, the one in Chatham where I waited for Drawlight. They will have thrown it away.” He turned back to the fire.

Childermass scowled at him for a moment or two. Then he strode out of the room.

A manservant came to say that hot water, towels and other necessaries had been set out in two bed-chambers so that Mr Norrell and Lascelles might refresh themselves. “And it’s a blind-man’s holiday in the passage-way, gentlemen,” he said cheerfully, “so I’ve lit you a candle each.”

Mr Norrell took his candle and made his way along the passageway (which was indeed very dark). Suddenly Childermass appeared and seized his arm. “What in the world were you thinking of?” he hissed. “To leave London without that letter?”

“But he says he remembers what it contains,” pleaded Mr Norrell.

“Oh! And you believe him, do you?”

Mr Norrell made no reply. He went into the room that had been made ready. He washed his hands and face and, as he did so, he caught a glimpse in the mirror of the bed behind him. It was heavy, old fashioned and – as often happens at inns – much too large for the room. Four carved mahogany columns, a high dark canopy and bunches of black ostrich feathers at each corner all contrived to give it a funereal look. It was as if someone had brought him into the room and shewn him his own tomb. He began to have the strangest feeling – the same feeling he had had at the tollgate, watching the three women – the feeling that something was coming to an end and that all his choices had now been made. He had taken a road in his youth, but the road did not lead where he had supposed; he was going home, but home had become something monstrous. In the half-dark, standing by the black bed, he remembered why he had always feared the darkness as a child: the darkness belonged to John Uskglass.

For always and for always