Lacroix called again, louder. A door opened where they had not seen a door and a man came through, patting into place a wig of the kind Lacroix remembered his grandfather sometimes wearing. Remembered the smell of it. Singed.

“Yes?” said the man, who had clearly been asleep, who was not yet, perhaps, quite awake. He had on buttoned breeches, white stockings, a black coat. He looked like someone’s footman but it turned out he was the manager of the place.

Introductions, arrangements. Some confusion as to whether they were asking for one room or two.

“Two,” said Lacroix. “We need two.”

“Of course,” said the manager, moving his hands as if everything had been clear to him from the first. “Two very comfortable rooms on the second floor.” He laughed. He had an accent that was neither English nor Scottish. A German of some sort? What was he doing in Oban?

A girl was summoned, yawning so hard her jaw creaked. She led them up the stairs, a candle in either hand, flames streaming. On the second floor she nodded to a door. “Tha’s one,” she said, “and tha’s the other.” She nodded to the door opposite. She gave them their candles. Lacroix asked for some supper to be brought up.

“It will have to be bread and cheese,” said the girl. “The cook’s gone hame.”

“Very well,” said Lacroix. “And whisky. And two glasses.”

The girl nodded and at the same time shrugged. She had understood or she had not. She would do it or she wouldn’t. She left them. Lacroix and Emily went into their respective rooms. Lacroix’s looked over the back of the sleeping town. He stood at the window listening for the girl’s return but heard nothing until there was a sharp rap at his door and Emily was there to say the tray was in her room. He went through. He brought his candle with him, dripped wax on to the mantelpiece and fixed it there, where it could throw back its light from the mirror. The tray was on the table by the foot of the bed. He poured them both a generous glass of whisky, drank off his own in two mouthfuls.

“It will be day again in a few hours,” he said.

She didn’t answer or he didn’t hear her. He asked if she felt well. She nodded and smiled a weary smile.

“The manager,” he said. “What is he? A German?”

“I think that is probably Spinkey,” she said. “A Russian.”

“A Russian!”

“One who has lived here twenty years or more. Insulted the tsar’s wife. Or one of his wives. I don’t know how many they have.”

“You didn’t say you had been here before.”

“I haven’t,” she said. “But Jane has.”

“Jane? Here?”

“I cannot think there are two Russians running hotels in Oban.”

Then he understood. “With Thorpe you mean?”

She nodded.