“I have something that belongs to her ladyship,” said Childermass. “Something she has long missed. So I beg that you will do me the kindness of taking me to her.”

“Oh, but …”

“I mean her no harm, Mr Segundus. And I believe I may be able to do her some good. I swear it by Bird and Book. By Bird and Book.”¹

“I cannot take you to her,” said Mr Segundus. He put up his hand to forestall Childermass’s objection. “I do not mean that I am unwilling. I mean I cannot. Charles will take us.” He indicated the servant at his side.

This seemed rather eccentric, but Childermass was in no mood to argue about it. Mr Segundus grasped Charles’s arm and closed his eyes.

Behind the stone-and-oak passages of Starecross Hall, a vision of another house leapt up. Childermass saw high corridors that stretched away into unthinkable distances. It was as if two transparencies had been put into a magic lantern at the same time, so that one picture overlaid the other. The impression of walking through both houses at once rapidly brought on a sensation akin to sea-sickness. Confusion mounted in his mind and, had he been alone, he would soon have been at a loss to know which way to go. He could not tell whether he was walking or falling, whether he climbed one step, or mounted a staircase of impossible length. Sometimes he seemed to be skimming across an acre of stone flags, while at the same time he was scarcely moving at all. His head spun and he felt sick.

“Stop! Stop!” he cried and sank to the ground with his eyes closed.

“It affects you badly,” said Mr Segundus. “Worse even than me. Close your eyes and take hold of my arm. Charles will lead us both.”

They walked on, eyes closed. Charles guided them round a right-hand turning and up a staircase. At the top of the staircase there was a murmured conversation between Mr Segundus and someone. Charles drew Childermass forward. Childermass had the impression of entering a room. It smelt of clean linen and dried roses.

“This is the person you wish me to see?” said a woman’s voice. There was something odd about it, as if it were coming from two places at once, as if there were an echo. “But I know this person! He is the magician’s servant! He is …”

“I am the person your ladyship shot,” said Childermass and he opened his eyes.

He saw not one woman, but two – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he saw the same woman doubled. Both sat in the same posture, looking up at him. They occupied the same space, so that he had the same giddy feeling in looking at her as he had had walking through the corridors.

One version of Lady Pole sat in the house in Yorkshire; she wore an ivory-coloured morning dress and regarded him with calm indifference. The other version was fainter – more ghostly. She sat in the gloomy, labyrinthine house, dressed in a blood-red evening gown. There were jewels or stars in her dark hair and she regarded him with fury and hatred.