breakfasted, but his host must have so done already, or else has no more appetite at this hour than he does after dark. The Baron is sitting, his back to the blinded window, with his pen in his hand and a pair of small wire spectacles on the end of his nose. He does not raise his head when Charles enters, nor when he speaks. It is several long slow moments, indeed, before he places the spectacles on the desk and raises his head.
“To whom do you refer?”
“The young woman I overheard talking with you last night.”
The Baron looks at him steadily. “I have no idea what—or whom—you mean. There is no young woman in this castle.”
“I am afraid I do not believe you. I distinctly heard a woman speaking with you—a young woman—”
“I say again,” interrupts the Baron, “there is no young woman here.Are you sure you did not dream the episode, Herr Maddox? A large dinner, and several glasses of both wine and
slivovitz
such as I am told is your habit, can produce the most vivid and disturbing dreams. Dreams that take on all the appearance of reality, and deceive the senses, even on waking.” He eyes Charles narrowly. “I am sure I do not need to elaborate any further. You have indeed had such an experience, have you not?”
Charles flushes under his intense pale stare. When he replies he has, all unconsciously, brought his hand to his neck.
“This was not a dream, Freiherr. It was observation, not hallucination.”
“Ah.” The Baron smiles dryly. “I had indeed heard that you place great store by—what was the phrase—
logic and observation
? And indeed, I concur, in some measure, with the principles espoused by your celebrated great-uncle. But were he a scientist, as I am, rather than a mere thief taker, he would know that observation can deceive, and logic cannot always be trusted.”
Charles is badly wrong-footed now—unsure whether he’s more offended at the casual disparagement of the man Maddox once was, or the fact that his own professional life has clearly been so comprehensively investigated, and without (and this really does concern him) his being in the slightest aware of it. The detective has become the detected, and in the most unsettling manner.
“Even were that true,” he says, his eyes cold and his cheeks hot, “I have no reason, on this occasion, to distrust the evidence of my own senses. I had seen you, on the parapet only minutes before, taking what appeared to me to be the most gratuitous and unnecessary risk given the ferocity of the storm, and I came out onto the gallery with the sole purpose of raising the alarm
on your behalf
. I can assure you that by that time I was both wide awake and wet through, from watching at the window.”
“If you are so concerned for your health, or for your wardrobe, you would perhaps be better advised to remain within your quarters, unless your presence elsewhere is explicitly requested.”
It is barely courteous—barely less than an outright rebuke—and they stare at each other, aware that one of them must retreat, or the encounter break open into absolute animosity. Charles is never averse to a fight, and he’s perfectly prepared to press hard for answers, but he’s also mindful that all he is likely to achieve is a permanent and uncomfortable rupture that will be almost impossible to explain to his clients in Oxford. He’s trying to think of a retort that doesn’t constitute a complete capitulation when the Baron—rather surprisingly—blinks first.
“I had intended, yesterday, to talk to you of my work, but I was, as you will recall, most unfortunately called away. That is why I was on the roof last night. To climb to such an exposed place in the middle of a storm might appear
to the uneducated
to be mere folly—which no doubt accounts for many of the impertinent rumours promulgated about me hereabouts—but I would have hoped a man with
your
pretensions to intelligence would have realised at once that a phenomenon such as
“To whom do you refer?”
“The young woman I overheard talking with you last night.”
The Baron looks at him steadily. “I have no idea what—or whom—you mean. There is no young woman in this castle.”
“I am afraid I do not believe you. I distinctly heard a woman speaking with you—a young woman—”
“I say again,” interrupts the Baron, “there is no young woman here.Are you sure you did not dream the episode, Herr Maddox? A large dinner, and several glasses of both wine and
slivovitz
such as I am told is your habit, can produce the most vivid and disturbing dreams. Dreams that take on all the appearance of reality, and deceive the senses, even on waking.” He eyes Charles narrowly. “I am sure I do not need to elaborate any further. You have indeed had such an experience, have you not?”
Charles flushes under his intense pale stare. When he replies he has, all unconsciously, brought his hand to his neck.
“This was not a dream, Freiherr. It was observation, not hallucination.”
“Ah.” The Baron smiles dryly. “I had indeed heard that you place great store by—what was the phrase—
logic and observation
? And indeed, I concur, in some measure, with the principles espoused by your celebrated great-uncle. But were he a scientist, as I am, rather than a mere thief taker, he would know that observation can deceive, and logic cannot always be trusted.”
Charles is badly wrong-footed now—unsure whether he’s more offended at the casual disparagement of the man Maddox once was, or the fact that his own professional life has clearly been so comprehensively investigated, and without (and this really does concern him) his being in the slightest aware of it. The detective has become the detected, and in the most unsettling manner.
“Even were that true,” he says, his eyes cold and his cheeks hot, “I have no reason, on this occasion, to distrust the evidence of my own senses. I had seen you, on the parapet only minutes before, taking what appeared to me to be the most gratuitous and unnecessary risk given the ferocity of the storm, and I came out onto the gallery with the sole purpose of raising the alarm
on your behalf
. I can assure you that by that time I was both wide awake and wet through, from watching at the window.”
“If you are so concerned for your health, or for your wardrobe, you would perhaps be better advised to remain within your quarters, unless your presence elsewhere is explicitly requested.”
It is barely courteous—barely less than an outright rebuke—and they stare at each other, aware that one of them must retreat, or the encounter break open into absolute animosity. Charles is never averse to a fight, and he’s perfectly prepared to press hard for answers, but he’s also mindful that all he is likely to achieve is a permanent and uncomfortable rupture that will be almost impossible to explain to his clients in Oxford. He’s trying to think of a retort that doesn’t constitute a complete capitulation when the Baron—rather surprisingly—blinks first.
“I had intended, yesterday, to talk to you of my work, but I was, as you will recall, most unfortunately called away. That is why I was on the roof last night. To climb to such an exposed place in the middle of a storm might appear
to the uneducated
to be mere folly—which no doubt accounts for many of the impertinent rumours promulgated about me hereabouts—but I would have hoped a man with
your
pretensions to intelligence would have realised at once that a phenomenon such as
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