The cab stopped on a quiet street in Highgate before a large building set behind iron railings and a high wall. The discreet plaque on the porter’s lodge read “Oakwood Retreat”.

Ned let St Clair talk to the porter, who immediately offered to take them to the physician in charge. Having an earl’s son in tow certainly opened more doors than any police badge or search warrant, Ned thought grudgingly, but even that did not distract him from the unease the place inspired.

In contrast to London’s dreaded lunatic asylums, which always echoed with the patients’ wailing and staff shouting orders, this place felt as quiet as a grave. The few keepers they met along the corridors all wore impeccably clean uniforms and even looked sober. There were no patients in sight, but the strong smell of carbolic that filled any medical building was present here as well, as was the underlying stench of urine that it usually tried to cover.

While they followed the porter, a door opened to their right. A young woman came out, then stopped to adjust an extravagantly colourful silk shawl over her simple grey dress. Her pale blue eyes seemed unfocused at first, but then zoned in on St Clair.

“My prince,” she said with an ecstatic smile.

St Clair did not miss a beat and bowed before her as if she were Queen Victoria herself.

“Not a prince, but at your service, my lady.”

A portly matron hurried out of the room the girl had just left and gave him a disapproving look before she turned to her charge.

“That will do, Miss Baker. Please return to the examination room.”

The girl did as she was told, but threw a last sad look over her shoulder. Before the door closed, Ned thought he saw a sudden flash of pale-yellow light around her, and he glanced at St Clair, who showed no reaction at all.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” the porter said, looking embarrassed.

He led them to a spacious office on the first floor and announced them to an earnest elderly man with an impressive waxed moustache. Dr Jones seemed less impressed with his aristocratic visitor than his employee was. He listened politely to St Clair’s inquiry, then folded his hands on the table, looking quite displeased.

“It would be highly unethical of me to share information about a former patient,” he said stiffly.

“Former patient?” Ned repeated, hoping that did not mean the man was dead.

“We discharged him a few months ago, when his son wrote and asked him to come live with him.”

“You do not happen to have the name and address of that son?” St Clair asked with his best charming smile.

It had no effect whatsoever on Dr Jones, who pushed his glasses up in a determined manner and said, “I apologise, my lord, but Oakwood Retreat guarantees absolute discretion to everyone who has ever sought out treatment here. You must understand how important that is. Especially when it comes to families like yours.”

“You mean the barmy ones?” St Clair asked, his smile not wavering for a moment.

“We do not use that word here, young man,” Dr Jones said sternly. “Now, if that was all, gentlemen, I will have the porter see you out.”

Ned cursed silently as he saw purple-tinted light rising from St Clair. He quickly grabbed the brat’s hand and said, “We understand, Dr Jones. Thank you for your time.”

It was St Clair’s turn to look indignant, but Ned dragged him out.

As soon as the door closed behind them, St Clair opened his mouth to speak, but Ned hissed, “You are not scrambling that man’s brain.”

“I told you- that only happens when the Enchanter is incompetent,” St Clair said, sounding insulted.

“Uh huh. I’ve seen what it did to Singh. I never want to see it again.”

St Clair let out the sigh of a man dealing with a completely unreasonable person, then looked around.

“We could wait until he leaves and search the files in his office,” he suggested.

“You want to add robbery to the list of your crimes?”

“I would not have to if you were not making things difficult,” St Clair complained.

Ned smacked him lightly on the back of his head and asked, “Do you have a sovereign on you?”

St Clair blinked at him in confusion, but pulled out a bundle of banknotes. “Will this do?”

Ned estimated the bundle was worth fifty pounds. It was about what he earned in six months, and yet St Clair offered it to him as if it were small change he found in his pockets. He picked out a five-pound note, then gave the rest back and headed for a back door.

“Uh… where are we going?” St Clair asked, hurrying after him.

Ned did not answer because he had already spotted what he was looking for. A brawny man stood half-hidden behind the garbage bins, lighting a cigarette. If one could count on one thing in any institution, it was a staff member sneaking out for a smoke and a breather.

The man took a drag and gave them a wary look. “Are you lost, gentlemen? This area is not open to visitors.”

“We just have a few questions, Mr …” St Clair said, waiting for the man to fill in the name.

“Evans,” the man replied automatically, then scowled. “Dr Jones does not allow journalists here.”

“We are not journalists. Just looking for an old friend who spent some time here,” Ned said and pulled the banknote from his pocket.

Evans whistled under his breath. “Must be some friend if he is worth that much. Who is it?”

“Dr Charles Hargrave.”

“Old friend, is he? You were both still children when he arrived here,” Evans said, peering suspiciously from his cloud of smoke.

“He is an old friend of my godfather. I promised I would find out where he is,” St Clair chimed in.

Evans hesitated, looking up at the windows above them before his eyes turned to the bank note in Ned’s hand.

“Not sure I can help you there, guv. He left here last summer. Quite suddenly, too. They say he went to live with his son. The funny thing is, in all these years, he never mentioned he had one. Talked a lot about his daughter. That is what broke him, you know.”

“Yes, I know. So that son never visited here?”

“I do not remember anyone visiting him. But that is not rare, you know. Most of those rich families are mortified by the loony relatives they hide here. Except that Hargrave was not a lunatic. I do not know what he was like when they brought him here, but in the five years I’ve known him, he’s been as sane as you or me.”

St Clair took the banknote from Ned’s hand and gave it to the man, who seemed unable to believe his luck. He quickly put it away as if he expected the generous donor to change his mind.

“Thanks, guv.”

“And if you can find a way to peek into the files and get the name and address of that son, I can find another banknote too,” St Clair promised.

Evans extinguished his cigarette and glanced at the windows again. He seemed to weigh the risks, then said, “I’ll have to wait until Dr Jones goes out for lunch.”