1. That he had known Eisengrim from childhood.

2. That Eisengrim came from the same village as Father and himself, and Mother—my Deptford.

3. That Eisengrim’s mother had been a dominant figure in his own life. He spoke of her as “saintly,” which puzzles me. Wouldn’t Netty have mentioned somebody like that?

4. That he met Liesl travelling with Eisengrim in Mexico and that they had discovered an “affinity” (his funny, old-fashioned word) which existed still.

5. When we veered back to the coincidence of my meeting them in St Gall, he laughed and quoted G. K. Chesterton: “Coincidences are a spiritual sort of puns.”

He has, it appears, come to Switzerland to recuperate himself after his heart attack, and seems likely to stay here. He is working on another book—something about faith as it relates to myth, which is his old subject—and appears perfectly content. This is not a bad haul, and gives me encouragement for further fishing.

Eisengrim affects royal airs. Everything suggests that this is Liesl’s house, but he seems to regard himself as the regulator of manners in it. After they adjourned their game (I gather it takes days to complete), he rose, and I was astonished to see that Liesl and Ramsay rose as well, so I followed suit. He shook us all by the hand, and bade us goodnight with the style of a crowned head taking leave of courtiers. He had an air of You-people-are-welcome-to-sit-up-as-long-as-you-please-but-We-are-retiring, and it was pretty obvious he thought the tone of the gathering would drop when he left the room.

Not so. We all seemed much easier. The huge library, where the curtains had now been drawn to shut out the night sky and the mountaintops and the few lights that shone far below us, was made almost cosy by his going. Liesl produced whisky, and I thought I might allow myself one good drink. It was she who brought up what was foremost in my mind.

—I assure you, Davey, there is nothing premeditated about this. Of course when we met in the bookshop I knew you must be the son of the man who died so spectacularly when Eisengrim was last in Toronto, but I had no notion of the circumstances.

—Were you in Toronto with him?

—Certainly. We have been business partners and artistic associates for a long time. I am his manager or impresario or whatever you want to call it. On the programs I use another name, but I assure you I am very much present. I am the voice of the Brazen Head.

—Then it was you who gave that extraordinary answer to my question?

—What question are you talking about?

—Don’t you recall that Saturday night in the theatre when somebody called out, “Who killed Boy Staunton?”

—I remember it very clearly. It was a challenge, you may suppose, coming suddenly like that. We usually had warning of the questions the Head might have to answer. But was it you who asked the question?