“Yeah, but I mean, like, how come I’ve never heard of this? How come it wasn’t in the papers or anything? What about this picture—who took the picture?”

“It’s said to have been taken by a Daily Telegraph photographer named Elton Yarwood. Who subsequently went missing without ever filing a story. In fact, no one ever filed a story. Whatever research has been done on the subject has appeared in such journals as The Fortean Times, Journal X in America. And, of course, Bizarre! But as far as the mainstream press—as far as any official source—is concerned, Iago never existed and the entire incident never took place.”

“So how’d the picture get here?”

“Ah.” Harper shrugged, smiled. “One does not inquire too deeply into the acquisitional methods of the Secret Museum, young Richard. Our friend Jorge here is, you will find, a very resourceful man.”

Jorge—who respected Harper to the point of idolatry—preened.

Storm, meanwhile, was intent on the photograph again. He had his head up close to it, tilted like a bird’s head to bring one eye nearer. “So wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. “This was twenty-five years ago?”

“Approximately, yes.”

“And you said Sophia’s mother killed herself when Sophia was four or five. Which can’t be more than twenty years ago.”

“Nineteen,” Harper said.

“So how could she have known this Iago guy unless he …?” His mouth still open on the word, he turned to cast an appraising glance at Harper. She had drifted away now to the edge of the torchlight. He studied her there, turned to the photo again, to her again. Then to the photo again, so close now his nose was almost pressed to the glass.

“You know, it’s funny,” he murmured, “this woman here, this one trying to get out—she looks kind of like you, Harper. Harper …?”

To his surprise, when he looked again, she had vanished. Only Jorge Swade was there, jogging his oily hair as he bounced up and down inside his red sports jacket.

“If you would … Over here, if you could … this way …” he said, gesturing fitfully towards the recess in the stone wall.

Squinting against the firelight, shielding his face from the heat of the torch with an upraised hand, Storm moved in that direction. And there was his queer old friend. Leaning on her stick in the alcove, in its deep shadow. Waiting for him by the lectern there. With a ceremonial flourish, she motioned to the lectern’s slanted surface. There lay a large, thin volume with a brown leather cover. Storm drew nearer. Harper flipped the cover open so that it fell against the lectern with a whap.

“This is the other reason I brought you here,” she said. “Tolle, lege, young Richard.” And when he gawped at her clueless, she translated: “Take up, dear boy, and read.”