The lunacy commission had kept out of his affairs thus far, and he’d taken for granted that such would always be the case. They were simply far too overworked to check up on every single country asylum across each district in England and wouldn’t have ever bothered with one little madhouse way up in the moors . . . until the meddling.

Most visitors were handily put off, but Leizel Schumann, the tiny pillar of confidence with a firm voice, had returned—with her small army of support dispatched by the home secretary. All because of one red-haired patient who had a habit of causing trouble. Once alerted to a problem and provided with proof, Thornhill knew the lunacy commission would not look away until it had seen everything there was to see.

Or at least, what he allowed them to see.

The question was, what proof had she given them to entice them here? What exactly did they already know?

He forced himself to look only at her pert little face. “I’m sorry, but there’s no record of an Otto Schumann at Hurstwell. You’re welcome to search the entire filing cabinet yourself.” He stood stiff and tall, leaning against the desk drawer that held the all-important files—the ones of patients who had needed to disappear. Ones whose madness had gone overlooked by other alienists—hidden by deceptive masks of sanity—and thus eluding the constraints they required.

“Actually, we’d like to search the wards again—on our own.” A tall gent from the commission with an even taller hat stepped forward, eyeing the superintendent. “Unless you have objections.”

“Of course not. Why would I?” Yes, yes. By all means, leave this office. Go tromping about the wards without him and stay out of his way for a moment. Opportunity was so close, he could nearly smell the fresh air of it. A few moments to himself and he’d have everything set to rights. He’d designed it to be this way—tracks easy to cover, secrets ready to tuck into shadows.

They began to funnel out. Backs faced him, and he waited grimly, clutching the desk. Leg braced against the drawer of secrets.

Then one turned. “By the by, Thornhill, what of that tower out back? It wasn’t part of the tour you gave us.”

“Because there isn’t anything to see out . . .” His courage tapered as he noticed Sam Barnhill just behind the gents—Sam, who slipped daily trays of food under the doors of the dazed and drugged patients in the lost tower. He stared at Thornhill, steady and knowing.