“You knew this whole time?” Ned asked, grasping for calm.

“That he gave you the notebook or that he is in love with you?” St Clair asked back.

“Only one of those is of any concern to you,” Ned replied coldly.

St Clair lowered his eyes as always when he tried to hide something.

“You made it a condition that I tell you everything that might be relevant to this case. Shouldn’t that go both ways?” he asked stubbornly.

“Michael is not relevant to this case,” Ned said firmly.

“He gave you evidence in a murder investigation. That makes him relevant.”

Ned couldn’t argue with that, but he could not give in.

“If you are so sure he has nothing to do with it, why are you so dead set against me speaking to him?” St Clair demanded.

“Because I don’t trust you not to scramble his brain if you don’t like his answers,” Ned said bluntly.

“I would not …”, St Clair began, but Ned lost his patience.

“You were prepared to execute me based on circumstantial evidence. Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”

St Clair went very still. The silence stretched between them until the cab finally stopped in front of Ravenstone House.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Ned wondered how anyone in this house ever managed to have a private conversation with all the servants around, bringing in dishes and replacing plates.

It was only afterwards, as they withdrew into the smoking room, that they were able to report what they had found. St Clair was suspiciously quiet, scribbling something into his sketch book, so it was up to Ned to tell the story.

Once he was done, Ravenstone took the card from him and examined it. “It says ‘Saint Sara’. I’ve seen a lot of Russian iconography, but never a saint dressed like this. Her clothes look more like an Indian sari than any Eastern European garment.”

“Saint Sara is the patron saint of the Romany. It would explain the wagon and the boy’s looks, too,” Visconti said thoughtfully.

Seeing Ravenstone’s confused look, he clarified, “Travellers. Gypsies.”

“But they don’t worship saints,” Ned objected.

“Your English Romanichal don’t. But this boy is an Eastern European Rom. They may all be gypsies to you, but there are differences among them. Not to mention the Sinti…”

“You are an expert on gypsies now?” Ravenstone asked.

“I learned a thing or two from a Romany who trained me when I was young. She was the only other warlock my elders could find,” Visconti explained and his expression became wistful. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever…”

“Not now, Uncle,” St Clair interrupted and got up from the desk to show him the sketchbook.

Ned blinked in surprise as he saw the drawings. One was of a boy with a suspicious look in his dark eyes and a stubborn set to his chin. It was certainly the one he’d seen in Soho. Ned could not say how St Clair had achieved it, but the child looked utterly vulnerable, despite his defiant expression.

Visconti, however, drew in a deep breath as he looked at the other image. It showed a worn, haggard face of a man, whose smile still somehow seemed genuine and warm as he held out a paper cone filled with candy.

“It is Charles. Older and thinner, but it is him,” Visconti said quietly.

Ravenstone took the sketchbook from him and squinted at the drawings. His face flushed with anger.

“This man was here. It’s the doctor who wanted to treat Jas.”