Perhaps he should go and find Trout. But Charlie’s wrists are sore from being tied, and his throat still raw from thirst. He won’t risk his freedom again, won’t trust another grown man’s judgement about what is right and wrong. And yet the little girl needs shelter, and her uncle needs help; the world a warning about a monster walking in its midst.

The porter’s lodge has a hut attached to it, too squalid to be called a cottage. It is tucked away at its back, out of view from student eyes, behind a thorn hedge four feet deep. Inside — his feet nearly in the fire, a kettle hanging from a chain by his side, his head tied into a rough scarf against the draft — sits Cruikshank, the porter. He has not drawn the curtain and sheltered as it is by the hedge, his hut’s window remains clear: one can see his dirty bed and the stacks of dishes by his sink; the crumbling dart board that hangs on one wall next to a shard of black slate that lets you mark the score. They draw close enough to touch the window and study the knotty little figure of the man, immersed in darning his socks. Charlie tries to put Eleanor down, but the girl is clinging to him awkwardly, her harness pressing into his face. Her breathing continues to be laboured. He has tugged at the contraption but has been unable to get it off.

“Go and knock on the door, Eleanor,” Charlie whispers to the little girl. “That there is Mr. Cruikshank. You must tell him who you are and that your uncle needs help. Tell him Spencer has gone mad. It’s very important that you remember. Julius Spencer. Tell him to tell the headmaster, and to fetch a club or a knife. Can you remember all that?”

But the girl won’t answer and just keeps clinging to him, each breath a struggle, her lips blue with cold and fear. He wrests her hands free, puts her down gently, walks with her to the door.

Again Charlie tries to tell her that she must knock and talk to Cruikshank, that he cannot go with her. Again she huddles back into his chest, buries her face there, shivers.

“Go on,” Charlie pleads with her. “Please. I beg you.”

She says something in response. To catch it, he has to put his ear to her lips, so close he can feel her breath against its skin.

“I’m bad,” she says. “I’m bad. That’s why the devil came to our house.”

Her hand reaches for the wheel on her chest. Charlie has to force it away.

“You are the best little girl I have ever met,” says Charlie.