Embarrassed at being the subject of such mothering, Charlie once again attempts to shake off his drowsiness or at any rate take charge of his limbs. It is then he realises his wrists are manacled to the bed frame with leather restraints. A vision of Baron Naylor shoots through him, strapped onto his bed, smoking darkly in the attic. It helps in its way.

Fear bids Charlie wake.

“Ah, I think you are coming round now. Very good. I was starting to be afraid I had given you too much. It’s gone ten o’clock. Not that it would have been a day for travelling. The snow has been coming down thick and fast. I imagine the road is quite impassable.”

Renfrew places a hand onto Charlie’s forehead, checking his temperature, then slips a finger between Charlie’s wrists and the restraints, making sure they are not cutting into Charlie’s skin. The finger lingers a moment, takes Charlie’s pulse. Throughout, Renfrew’s movements are unhurried, efficient. He would have made a good doctor, or better yet, a surgeon, excising rotten flesh with a steady hand. His task accomplished, Renfrew straightens, smoothes his necktie and collar, and looks Charlie straight in the eye.

“I must ask you again, Mr. Cooper, to relate to me all the events that led to your being attacked in a coach heading from Lady Naylor’s estate on the morning after New Year’s Day, and all events that have transpired since. We need a full accounting. It is, I’m afraid, a matter of national significance.”

Charlie attempts to answer, but his tongue is not working.

“Water,” he croaks, “water.”

Renfrew sadly shakes his head.

“Let us talk first, Mr. Cooper. Here, I will moisten your lips again. It might be small consolation, but I drank a measure of salt water this morning and have not taken anything since. There, on the windowsill: I have poured us two glasses. Let us drink together, Mr. Cooper, and quench this infernal thirst. Once we have finished our conversation. What do you say?”

But Charlie can only stare at him and struggle against the restraints.

“You’ve gone mad,” he manages at last, his mouth so raw it comes out as a whisper.

“If you need to perform your ablutions,” Renfrew answers stiffly, “I can offer a bedpan for your use.”

ф

The hours creep past. The room’s window looks directly south and Charlie can track the journey of the sun. The window itself is frozen solid, and the sun a matte disk of orange that is being pulled across its frosted pane. Renfrew is sitting two feet from him, a pen in his hand and a lacquered lap desk perched on his knees. He has explained it all very patiently.