'In one year alone he negotiated the acquisition of the libraries of Benedikt of Richnov and the Austrian nobleman Anton Schwarz von Steiner.' She paused for breath and turned to face me. 'You must have heard of these collections?'

I shook my head. We had reached the top of the steps. The tiled floor seemed to sway beneath my feet like the deck of a foundering ship. She pushed open the door for me, and I stumbled through after my shadow. Benedikt of Richnov? Anton Schwarz? There was much, apparently, that I didn't know.

'Each library contained more than ten thousand volumes,' came her voice from the darkness behind me. 'Among other treasures they included Rupescissa's work on alchemy and Finé's edition of Roger Bacon. Even manuscripts on astrology by Albamazar and Sacrobosco. Most were sent to the Imperial Library in Vienna to be catalogued by Hugo Blotius, the Hofbibliothekar, but some were taken to Prague for inspection by His Excellency. No simple task. They were transported across mountains and through the Böhmerwald in special mule-carts and wagons with sprung wheels, a new invention in those days. The wooden boxes in which they were packed had been caulked at the seams with oakum and pitch, like the hull of a warship. These in turn were wrapped in two layers of tanned canvas. It must have been an amazing sight. From front to rear the convoys were almost a mile long, with all of the books still in alphabetical order.'

Her voice echoed against the bare, unmarked walls. The words seemed rehearsed, as if she had told the story many times before. I remembered the copious shelves of occult works in her father's library and wondered if these books had some connection with either Benedikt of Richnov or Anton Schwarz, or possibly even with the 'Wizard Emperor' himself.

We were walking abreast now, quickly, winding our way back in the direction-so far as I could tell-of the library. It was impossible to determine if we had passed this same way earlier. The servants, even Phineas, seemed to have vanished. It occurred to me that two people, even a half-dozen, could easily go about their business in Pontifex Hall for days on end without so much as setting eyes on one another.

Abruptly the narration ended. 'My dear Mr. Inchbold…'

I had been hurrying to keep pace, wheezing and blowing like a grampus. Now I almost collided with her as she halted in the middle of the corridor.

'My dear Mr. Inchbold, I have imposed too long on your good nature. You must wonder why I have told you all of these things. Why I have shown you the library, the inventory, the patents…'

I straightened and found I couldn't meet her eyes. 'Well, Lady Marchamont, I must confess-'

'Oh, please.' She interrupted me with a raised hand. 'Alethea. We have no need of formalities, I hope.'

A command rather than a request. I acquiesced: she was my superior in rank, after all, whether or not her title was used. A name-a word-changes nothing.

'Alethea.' I pronounced the strange name with caution, like a man sampling an exotic new dish.

She resumed walking, though more slowly now, the thick soles of her buskins scuffing the tiles. We turned left into another, longer corridor.

'The fact is that I wished you to see something of what Pontifex Hall used to be. Can you imagine it yet? The frescos, the tapestries…' Her free hand gestured like a conjuror's at the bare walls, at the expanse of vacant corridor before us. I blinked stupidly into the darkness, able to imagine none of it. 'But even more,' she resumed in a lower voice, 'I wanted you to know what manner of man my father was.'

We had reached the library, whose darkness was now complete. I was startled once more by the touch of her hand. Turning, I saw two tiny flames, reflections from the lamp, dancing in the pupils of her close-set eyes. I looked nervously away. Sir Ambrose was, at this point, even more unimaginable than his plundered possessions.

'I have no husband, no children, no living relations.' Her voice had dropped to a whisper. 'Very little now remains for me. But I am left with one thing, one ambition. You see, Mr. Inchbold, I wish to restore Pontifex Hall to its former condition. To render it exactly the same in every last detail.' She released my arm to gesture again at the empty darkness. 'Every last detail,' she repeated with a peculiar emphasis. 'The furniture, the paintings, the gardens, the orangery…'

'And the library,' I finished, thinking of the books eroding to rags and dust on the floor.

'Yes. The library as well.' She had taken my forearm again. The lamp swung in short arcs. Our shadows wavered to and fro like dancers. Here in the vacant house with its bare walls and falling plaster her ambition seemed outlandish and impossible. 'All precisely as my father left them. And I shall do it, too. Though I expect no easy time of it.'

'No,' I replied, hoping to sound sympathetic. I was thinking of the quartered troops, of the house's devastated façade, of the great branch of ivy insinuating itself through a second-door window… of the whole dreadful picture of ruin I had seen through the archway. No easy time of it indeed.

'I shall be frank.' She had raised the lamp as if to illuminate our faces. It was burning more brightly now, but the flame served only to deepen the shadows. 'Difficulties with the hall's restoration will arise not simply because of the desecration, and not simply because, yes, if you must know, I am, shall we say, embarrassed for funds. They will arise also because certain other stakes are involved.' Her voice was casual but her eyes, grown obsidian in the dark with their expanded pupils, maintained their intense, searching gaze. 'Certain other interests. You see, Mr. Inchbold, I, like my father, have accumulated more than my share of enemies.' The pressure on my arm grew almost painful. 'You've seen from the inventory that Sir Ambrose was a man of enormous wealth.'

I nodded obediently. For a second I could see the bailies passing along this corridor and through the rest of the house, through chambers as rich as Aladdin's cave; the four of them touching vases, clocks, tapestries, secretaries, jewels of unimaginable price; their eyes growing wide; item after fabulous item added to the incredible inventory. All now vanished.

'Wealth attracts its enemies,' she said, then added in the same casual tone: 'Sir Ambrose was murdered. As was Lord Marchamont.'

'Murdered?' The word possessed its due resonance against the bare walls of the corridor. 'But by whom? Cromwell's men?'

She shook her head. 'That I cannot say for certain. But I have my doubts. The fact is that I do not know. I had hoped the muniments would offer some clue. Lord Marchamont thought he might have discovered something, but…' She shook her head again and lowered her eyes. Raising them a second later, she must have seen what she interpreted as an alarmed look on my face, for she added quickly: 'Oh, but there's no need to worry. There's nothing to fear, Mr. Inchbold. Do let me reassure you of that. Please understand. You will be quite safe. I promise you that.'

This reassurance opened a small crevice of doubt. Why should I not be safe? But I had no time to contemplate the question, for now she released my forearm and plucked up a bell. Its sound was harsh and plaintive, like an alarm.

'Never fear,' she said, turning back to me as the echoes died away. 'Your task will be a simple one. One that will bring you into no danger at all.'

Ah, I thought. At last. 'My task?'

'Yes.' Phineas had appeared at the end of the corridor. Lady Marchamont turned to face him. 'But I have talked too much already. Do forgive me. All of this must wait for tomorrow. You should rest now, Mr. Inchbold. You have come such a long way. Phineas?' The footman's lugubrious face hove into the yellow track of the fish-oil lamp. 'Please show Mr. Inchbold to his chamber.'