It was brutal, quite extreme, but this was the only way that made any sense at all. Yes, one day all of England would come up-to-date in their understanding of these silent bombs of patients. They needed to be handled carefully—neutralized with firm treatment and tonics, and locked in a place far from the rest of the world.

He stared at the doorway where Mrs. Schumann had stood, recalling the details of her husband’s admittance. The men who’d brought Otto Schumann—men who looked nothing alike—were obviously not his brothers, but Thornhill had steeled himself against doubts. One look at the unconscious man stirring on the table, the gashes across his giant body and the dirt and blood under his fingernails, and Dr. Thornhill knew the men’s account of Otto and his violence was true. It mattered not how the men truly knew the patient—their story matched what Thornhill’s eyes observed, and that was enough. Better safe than unutterably sorry later.

He stood for a moment before the files in the fire, watching them all burn. Satisfaction mingled with fear in his chest as the blackened papers curled. What was right wasn’t always legal—and Timothy Alan Thornhill had always operated on a higher moral plane than the law.

After a moment, he strode out of the room and listened for footsteps. They’d be on the first floor or perhaps out on the grounds, searching all the patient work spaces. The laundry, the kitchen, the butcher shop. He had only a small measure of time to do something about the lost tower, but what? Free the least harmless? Topple the tower on them all?

No. Too barbaric.

He thought briefly—madly—of the tunnels. Of the waterways running beneath the tower, which sometimes flooded if the rains had been bad, as they had this past year. The week had been unusually warm too. The water would have thawed. The tunnels would be filled with it, and no one trapped down there would stand a chance. He shuddered at the thought of human bodies shoved into the dank tunnels, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. He had other options to consider first.

But for her . . . Cora Fletcher—no, Vivienne Mourdant—a permanent solution would need to be found. It was the only way—one life to save countless others. She mustn’t be found. Mustn’t topple his house of cards.

Thankfully, there weren’t many people who even knew to search for her.

Head down, shoulders back, he moved into the hallway and turned sharply toward the back hall. An hour. Just an hour was all he needed, maybe less. But they were there, gathered in his front entry like a wall of black stone. Watching him. Waiting. He gripped the tower keys in his right fist.