Page 5

“The colour of the yolk is wrong.”

“Does it matter?”

With a small chuckle, Havelock sat back. “I suppose not.”

It was a bright morning, and I was feeling enlivened by our departure from London. It felt good to be away. Already, we were approaching the lakes; the hills were rising around us. Havelock, too, appeared to be in better spirits, so I decided to tease him: “The burden of knowing everything.”

“Contrary to popular rumour,” he said, “I am, in fact, not omniscient. I have read a fair few books in my time, certainly, but hardly enough to warrant your sarcasm.”

I laughed. “A fair few?”

“There was a time,” said Havelock, his eyes scanning the hills beyond the windows of the carriage, “when a man might be considered an expert in most things. Around fifty years ago, humanity’s collective knowledge of a subject could quite often be covered by a single volume.”

“What happened?”

“A wealthy nation can support more scholars, and our Empire’s wealth continues to accumulate. More books have been published in the last year than a single man might read in his entire lifetime.” Returning to his egg, Havelock cut through it, letting the yolk run over his toast.

I sipped at my coffee. The cup was far too broad, and droplets clung to my moustache. I wiped them away with my handkerchief. “How did you fare with your enquiries?” I ventured.

The letter from the Duchess was there, between us. Havelock had slid it into one of the slots of the toast stand. “I enquired at the bank, and my fee was indeed paid. In full.”

“Astonishing.”

“Isn’t it just?” Havelock aimed his knife at the letter. “In fact, it’s even more astonishing than you might imagine. What do you know about Farleigh?”

“Not much. I had a flick through some books after you left, yesterday. The village is small and remote, and there’s a story about the old Duke…”

“His stone library.”

“Yes. It is something of a folk tale, though.”

“Quite. But don’t worry about the library. What you said about the village is correct. It’s small and remote, and it has no apparent industries or exports. The Duchess’s estate can hardly be profiting to the degree that makes it possible for her to pay my fee.”

“Old money, then?”

“Doubtful.” Havelock took a bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully. “I took the liberty of discussing the matter with Her Majesty’s revenue offices, and the Duchess pays modest taxes. Her estate is firmly in decline. I even spoke to a tax collector who had cause to visit Farleigh House in recent years, and he confirmed that the estate is in ruins. It took him by surprise that anyone was still living there, apparently.”

“Perhaps she borrowed?”

“Do you know anyone generous enough to lend that amount of money to a ruined estate with a minimal income?”

“Perhaps not. And yet…”

“And yet I have been paid. But that’s only the first mystery, and hardly the most interesting.”

I took the envelope, and examined it closely. It looked as if it were made of a mess of very thin white fibres, and there were fragments of petals pressed into the pulp. “The paper?”

“Yes. It’s quite extraordinary.”

“You said it was handmade?”

“It certainly is.”

I remembered glancing out of the window yesterday afternoon, glimpsing Havelock hanging what looked like handkerchiefs from a line to dry in the sun. An experiment, perhaps. “Do you know what it’s made of?”

Havelock’s eyes gleamed. “Nettles.”

I almost dropped the envelope.