She was dressed in a long skirt and blouse, both black, and her face was shaded by a broad-brimmed hat. An outfit far too hot for the late June day, let alone for the hellish temperature of the forge. It took me a second, because of the shading over her face, to realise that she was wearing a jet-black silk eye patch over her left eye.
‘Hello there. How can I help you?’
‘You will find it is the other way around.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shook her head. She was wincing a little from the heat of the place. ‘No questions. Not just yet. Your curiosity shall be satisfied, I assure you. You must come with me.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t stay here.’
‘What?’
‘I said: no questions.’
The next thing I knew she was pointing a small wooden pistol straight at my chest.
‘Blazing fuck. What are you doing?’
‘You have outed yourself to the scientific community. There is an institute . . . I haven’t got time to explain this. But, if you stay here, you will be killed.’
The heat of the forge often made being in there a kind of delirium, a fever dream. For a moment, I thought this was a waking dream.
‘Dr Hutchinson is dead,’ she said. Her voice was composed, but there was a quiet force to it, as if not just stating a fact but an inevitable one.
‘Dr Hutchinson?’
‘Murdered.’
She let the word stay in the air, with nothing but the sound of the roaring fire for company.
‘Murdered? Who by?’
She handed me a news item that had been cut out ofThe Times.
Doctor’s Body Found in Thames.
I skimmed the piece.
‘You made a mistake. You should never have gone to see him about your condition. He had written a paper on you. On the condition. He had given it a name. Anageria. The paper would have, very possibly, been published. And that wouldn’t do. Not at all. So, I am afraid the society had no other recourse. He had to die.’
‘You killed him?’
Her face now shone from the heat. ‘Yes, I killed him, to save lives. Now, come with me. There is a coach waiting outside. It is ready to take us to Plymouth.’
‘Plymouth?’
‘Don’t worry, it is not to reminisce.’
‘I don’t understand. Whoareyou?’
‘My name is Agnes.’
She opened up her handbag and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to me. I put down the mallet and took it. It had no name, no address, but its blue paper bulged with contents.
‘What is this?’
