Chapter 20

A Cold Bed

July 5: Powick

At nine fifteen I went upstairs and dressed in dark cargo pants, T-shirt, and a hoodie I had thrown into my backpack before we left. I emptied the rest of my stuff onto the bed and repacked only what I would need—supplies for various lock bypass methods, a length of rope, a knife, LED flashlight, a few gadgets that might come in handy.

Downstairs, Ashna was sitting at the kitchen table, watching a grainy video feed.

“I got into their security camera server. They only have four cameras for the whole building. Lobby, main entrance exterior, and two wide angles at the back. You can see the door here.” She pointed at a small door in the frame. It was the one near the fire escape I planned on using.

“Can you disable that one?”

“I can do better. Look, they’re on servos so you can pan.” She showed me a control on the screen. “I’m going to slowly inch it this way bit by bit until the fire escape isn’t in the field of view anymore.”

“Perfect.”

“Don’t get killed, asshole,” Ashna said and punched my shoulder.

“I’ll do my best,” I replied, trying to sound lighthearted but not feeling it.

I left via the patio doors at the rear of the model home, slipping out onto a terrace, crossing dry lawn, and vaulting a low wall into the neighboring yard. In that manner, I moved through the unoccupied subdivision, passing windows that looked in on empty rooms, crossing well-kept yards. A damp chill rose from the earth as the last of the day’s heat dissipated into the evening air. It felt good to be alone, walking at night. I always thought too much, spent too much time obsessing over details. When I finally started moving I was able to clear my head and exist in the moment. At last I reached the crumbled edge where suburb met farmland. Between the two, I found a rough no man’s land—a shallow ditch where tall weeds grew. The moon, amber colored and shaped like a broken button, hung high in the sky. By its light, I crept along the far side of the ditch, keeping my eye on the looming shape of the asylum, solid black against the star-dotted black of the sky. I followed the border, enjoying the scent of fecund soil as I crossed along a fallow field, then a field planted in juvenile sugar beets. The smell of those beets took me back to my childhood on the farm for a moment, memories rolling by like a jerky old movie. Not a happy time. A time I gritted my teeth and got through. A time I didn’t like to remember. I turned the projector off by pure force of will and focused on the task at hand. Another fifteen minutes and I came slowly around to the rear of the old asylum.

A stone wall about eight feet high enclosed the grounds. I climbed to the top and crouched on the pitted cement coping, surveying the building. Lights shone from several windows in the east wing and also glowed through the tall, thin slivers of stained glass at the rear of the chapel. I stayed there for several minutes, watching. I could see the rear door but there was a dark corner where the west wing met the main building and a tall tree blocked out the moon’s light. I kept watching, distrustful. My eyes did the tricks that eyes do in the dark—seeking movement and pattern and making it up out of nothing if it wasn’t forthcoming. Finally, though, I saw something real—the flare of a lighter, a tiny orange glow moving up and down. A guard was posted at the door. He was seated in the shadows nearby, maybe on a bench, smoking.

I would have to distract him long enough to get onto the fire escape and up to the roof. I dropped silently back down to the outside of the wall and stood with my back to it, feeling my backpack catch on the rough texture of the stone, thinking through my options. There was always the old ‘throwing the distraction’ gambit—a common trope in movies and TV shows when the hero is on a stealthy mission and needs to get past a guard. The maneuver involved throwing something to make a noise which the guard would then investigate, allowing the hero to slip past. I had a slightly better version I had worked up once years before. It was the one time I did a commissioned job which had involved sneaking around a well-patrolled museum. I had taken apart a particularly atrocious children’s toy called Gassy Gus, extracting from his molded rubber interior a little integrated circuit with a speaker, battery, and switch that was activated by squeezing the figure’s stomach. When the switch was tripped, the toy would emit ten disgusting fart noises spaced about two seconds apart, then fall dormant. I had hacked the circuit to include a timer that would delay the onset of farts for five minutes. During the museum job I had triggered it then hidden it on top of a molding to cause confusion while I took care of business in a nearby gallery. It had worked so well that I made a detour to go back and get it on my way out.

I found the device in my backpack, put it in my hoodie pocket, and worked my way along the wall until I was even with the far edge of the west wing. A wispy fog had started to gather, pooling in hollows and shimmering when the silver motes caught the moonlight. I used it to my advantage as I darted over the wall and across the grounds. When I reached the asylum’s brick exterior, I began working my way back toward the central building, sticking to the shadows cast by the trees planted along the periphery. When I was about fifty feet from the guard I found a good place to hide where the exterior wall made a little zig zag and a tree threw the corner into deep shadow. I crept back the way I had come, pressed the button on the device, and left it in the crook of a tree. Back in my hiding spot I waited. Right on time, the farting started. It was surprisingly loud. I had no doubt the guard would hear it. I heard him coming after the third emission of ersatz flatus sounded out. He passed my position, crouching low and peering into the darkness. As soon as he was far enough away, I slipped out and made my way to the fire escape. With a jump, I grasped the cold, fog-damp steel, and began climbing. I turned twice on my way up and saw the guard out in the grounds, back to me, searching for the source of the noise that had ceased before he got close enough to pinpoint its location.

When I reached the top, I scrambled over the edge and hid behind a low parapet, my cheek pressed against tar paper, body tense. The smell of damp, hydrocarbon sludge awakened a sense memory. The feeling was peaceful but the exact memory was elusive. To my right, glistening with droplets of fog in the moonlight, the sloping, tiled roof of the main building rose up against the sky. To my left, the vertical front wall of the chapel rose above the narthex. There were two windows in that wall, looking down into the chapel toward the transept. I lay there for a while, catching my breath but I knew I needed to keep moving and find a good hiding place. I rose and scrambled over to the door that gave access to the stairwell, staying low, then shined my little LED flashlight on the knob set and examined the lock. It was a basic pin tumbler lock made by a well-known manufacturer. It would be no problem to pick. I eased my backpack off my shoulders, set it down silently, and zipped it open, pointing the light down into the main pocket. As I rummaged, I thought I heard something and stopped for a moment, holding absolutely still for several seconds. Then I heard the sound again, closer this time, like a bit of gravel underfoot. I whirled just in time to see a dark figure silhouetted against the sky, arm raised and moving downward. A flash in my brain, a dull, thudding impact, and I was falling sideways, blackness closing over me.

****

The first thing I became aware of was bright light, orange through my closed eyelids, then a splitting headache and deep, numbing cold all down my left side. I opened my eyes but immediately squeezed them shut against the explosion of searing pain stabbing my corneas. I tried to move and managed to roll over onto my back. My left arm was asleep. I had been lying on top of it. The pins and needles started as blood flowed into capillaries. I probed my head gingerly with my right hand, running fingers lightly over my skull. Just behind my ear there was an impressive lump. Around the lump, my hair was matted with dried blood. The floor was like ice—a cold bed of concrete for my aching carcass. I lay still for a full minute and the headache began to subside to a dull throb.

I opened my eyes again. This time I was able to begin to make out shapes through the glaring pain. Above me was a concrete ceiling with a complex array of pipes and conduit running across it. Some pipes were yellow, others red, still others plain steel. There were three bare bulbs in cages lighting the space. I held a hand to my eyes, partially blocking the glare. After a while I felt like I might be able to sit up. I tried it and nearly vomited but managed to keep my upper half vertical.

The room was about twelve feet by twenty. Against one wall was a row of tall steel cabinets where many of the conduits terminated, running down through the top. It had to be an electrical panel. Maybe the main panel for the building. More tall cabinets were grouped against the opposite wall with dark, greasy fingerprints clustered around the handles, making me think they were probably storage for building maintenance workers. Directly in front of me were solid looking double doors with panic bars. The doors were the only entrance or exit from the room. It appeared that I had been stashed away to be dealt with later.

I crawled over to the doors and pushed one of the bars. No movement—they were locked as I had suspected. The effort made my head throb and my vision go white. I sat still for another minute while the floor underneath me slowly stopped spinning. I opened my eyes again. My backpack was nowhere to be seen. I checked my pockets. No phone, they had even taken my belt. I had one hiding place they probably hadn’t noticed though. Sewn into the waistband of my pants was a secret pocket where I always kept a few small items for just this type of emergency. It was a habit of mine that I had carelessly let slide for a while but had taken back up recently after my ordeal in the cellar of Patrice Antonetti’s chateau. I was just reaching a finger into the pocket when I heard footsteps approaching. I slid back, away from the door and leaned against one of the storage cabinets. The cold metal felt weirdly soothing against my back. The steps grew louder then stopped. The panic bar on the other side of the door clanked as it was pushed in. Jutting’s security entered first—the big guy with the stone crushing sausage fingers who had been in the lobby when I visited followed by another guard, a woman who looked every bit as qualified for the job. They were both dressed in paramilitary uniforms. No weapons were visible but I was sure they had them. They took up positions on either side of the door, watching me impassively as Jutting and Victoria Butler followed them in. Jutting stopped between the guards, gazing down at me, and Victoria hovered behind him. Jutting seemed uncomfortable. His gaze kept darting around the room then back to me. He wore a black tunic and simple pants almost like a monk’s garb. It had to be his outfit for the ritual. Victoria, in a sleeveless blouse, shuddered in the damp cold, hugging her arms to her sides. I could see the goosebumps from ten feet away.

“Mister Vincent,” Jutting said, clearing his throat. “I’m disappointed.”

“So am I,” I replied.

“What have you to be disappointed about? You’re the one who has invaded my property, seeking to steal from me.”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing. I’d call it recovering stolen property. The notes you have that were used by Saint Martin to decode the enigma were stolen from a friend of mine. I simply want them back.”

Jutting’s eyes flashed with anger. “Wolhardt is a fool! He had no idea how to use the information. The one useful thing Nigel Bathmore ever did for me was stealing those notes. Of course, he didn’t intend to be doing me a service. The idiot thought I would pay him.” Jutting laughed, a short bark that echoed around the room and rang in my ears.

“Still, you can’t really call it stealing.”

“I’ll call it what I like, Mister Vincent. You are in no position to argue semantics. I’m afraid I have important business to attend to this evening. Your presence is not wanted. You will remain our guest here in this room until morning. My people will turn you over to the chief constable tomorrow along with your possessions which are rather incriminating. I understand there are quite a few tools in your backpack specifically designed for breaking and entering. Chief Constable Doyle is a very loyal friend of mine. He will know just how to deal with you.”

“Interesting. I assumed you would just get rid of me.”

“This isn’t a James Bond novel, Mister Vincent. I’m not an evil super villain. After tonight, I will no longer be interested in you. You are a speck of dust. An annoying one that keeps coming back after being flicked away. I will leave it to the earthly powers to decide your fate.”

“You actually believe your stupid ritual is going to work, don’t you? You think you’re going to call up an army of demons like Cellini supposedly did. You realize that guy made up most of what’s in that book right? He was like the Donald Trump of the sixteenth century. Every other sentence was a lie.”

Jutting took a step back, confused. He started to speak, then stopped himself. Finally, he forced his face into a placid mask. “This audience is over, Mister Vincent. I hope you find your prison cell satisfactory. Breaking and entering is a serious offense. So is assault. The condition you left my security guard in is deplorable. She will be willing to testify to the brutality of your attack.”

“I didn’t…” I began to protest but let my voice trail off, head throbbing. “You know I didn’t touch anyone.” I looked at Victoria. She stood behind Jutting, eyes unfocused. She seemed dazed. “A great man, Victoria? Do you still feel that way?”

She started and glanced my way, opening her mouth but Jutting cut her off before she could speak.

“Good night, Mister Vincent. I hope you don’t catch a cold down here.” He turned and left. Victoria gave me a pained expression and mouthed something I couldn’t understand, then followed him out. The two security guards followed. I closed my eyes, listening to the doors swing closed, footsteps receding.

After they were gone I sat for a few minutes, emptying my mind, practicing deep, slow breathing, and gathering my energy. I was pretty sure I had a concussion. My headache was not normal and I felt on the edge of confusion. I would need all my faculties to escape. Once my mind was calm I reached into the pocket inside my waistband again and extracted a small zipper bag. In it were a very small pick and tension wrench, a length of fine, flexible steel cable, and a flat, credit card size multitool. The pick set wouldn’t work on any lock requiring much tension to turn the tumbler but would hopefully be enough to get me into the cabinets I was leaning against. The doors had panic or crash bars on both sides, probably so that maintenance workers pushing carts could ram through them without having to turn a knob or handle. They were locked on the inside where I was trapped but Jutting’s security had simply pushed the doors open when they entered, meaning the outside bars were not locked. I knew a good bypass method if I could find the right materials.

Slowly, I rose to my knees and leaned my shoulder against the cabinet door. The cabinets were about seven feet tall with pull down handles at waist height. The locks in the handles were small. I inserted my tension wrench and started raking the pins with the pick. It only took a few seconds. The lock turned and I twisted the handle to open the door. Inside, I found cans of paint. There were four shelves, each with neat stacks of cans. Some unopened, some showing drips down the sides. I moved on to the next cabinet. It was full of plumbing supplies—pipes, gaskets, fittings—all glinting brass and steel. I was working on the lock of the next cabinet when I realized I had already found what I needed. I went back to the paint cans. Each can had a stiff wire handle in a U shape. I really was foggy and confused. The wire would suit my purpose perfectly. I took two of the cans out, sat back down on the frigid floor with them, and took another minute to breathe, allowing the pain behind my right eye to subside somewhat. Then, I slowly bent and worked the wire handles until I had them detached from the cans. They were long enough that I really only needed one of them. I bent it straight, then rose and stepped on it, bending a ninety degree angle about eight inches from one end, then another ninety four inches from the end. When I was done I had a J shaped piece of tough wire. I bent the very top of the J to create a little serif that would give me something to hold on to, and then fastened one end of my steel cable around the improvised device. Walking unsteadily but as silently as possible to the doors, I leaned against the one on my left and pressed my ear to the small gap between them. I was listening for a guard. It seemed unlikely that they had left someone outside. They had seemed confident that I would be helpless without my tools. Still, I listened. After two minutes, I decided there was no one there, crouched down, and slid the bottom of my wire J under the door. There was a gap between the doors of perhaps half a centimeter with a bit of weather stripping—enough for my cable and the wire itself to squeeze between. I inched the wire up, using the cable to pull while simultaneously pushing from below. The effort made me light headed but I managed to get it up to just below the level of the latch. From there it was a simple twist to bring the point of my J in line with the push bar. I had bent the serif handle parallel to the bottom of the J so I would be able to align it without being able to see it on the other side of the doors. I twisted it to just the right rotation then took a deep breath and yanked. The point of the J met the bar on the outside and pushed it in. I kept pulling and the door creaked open. I stepped quickly into the gap and rested there for a minute, my toe holding the door open. I was free but now I needed a plan. More than anything, I needed to know what time it was.

I opened my eyes and looked down a concrete corridor. At the end, maybe fifty feet away, I saw a stairwell. Fluorescent lights lit the corridor with a greenish glow. I walked slowly, running my hand along the wall, passing several closed doors. Near the stairs an old punch card time clock was bolted to the wall, probably for workers to clock in and out. A rack of cards was bolted to the wall above the clock, each little card holder labeled with a name. The clock read eleven seventeen. It was probably accurate. That meant I had been out for a while. The ritual would start in forty three minutes. Jutting was just the kind of guy to start his demon summoning ceremonies precisely on time. I had no choice but to climb the stairs and hope I didn’t run into any security on the way. Were they the stairs I had seen in the building plan? The ones I was originally planning to take down once I was on the roof? It seemed likely. If so, they must have carried me down them and then found the closest place to lock me up. There was only one way to find out. As I climbed the stairs—slowly, one by one, resting often—I felt a charged hum in the air, like ozone after a thunderstorm, or the nervous excitement of concert goers before a performance. It could have been psychosomatic or a result of my concussion but it seemed like the air itself was buzzing with trepidation at Jutting’s plans. It was stupid really. Even though I didn’t believe in the supernatural, some atavistic impulse had me worried about it. I supposed it was a self-preservation instinct telling me to get away from the potentially dangerous unknown. I battled it down and kept climbing the stairs. My headache was subsiding and I was feeling less shaky but I forced myself to move slowly. I needed to get my backpack if I was going to have any chance of completing my mission. It almost had to be in the lobby where the security detail was headquartered. I stopped at the first floor landing, listened at the door for ten seconds, and, hearing nothing, inched it open.

The door creaked on its hinges, swinging open to reveal what seemed to be an employee break room. The lights were off but various LEDs illuminated the room enough for me to see that the floor was linoleum tile with a few tables scattered about. In the far, shadowy end of the space I could just make out a counter with a sink, a microwave, and a refrigerator humming away, no doubt full of frozen burritos, yoghurts, and, pushed to the back, half a forgotten Marmite sandwich. An exit sign glowed red above a door to my left. I hurried across and paused, listening again. I heard a distant blast of walkie static and a voice fading away. I waited another ten seconds, then eased the door open.

Outside I recognized the hallway that led back to the chapel. I remembered it from my visit. It was lit up now with votive candles and moonlight. I paused. Guests attending the ritual would be coming this way to get to the chapel if, as I had guessed, the chapel was to be the location. I stood there for a moment longer, indecisive. Just then, a susurration of soft footsteps and rustling fabric reached my ear, just a whisper at first but growing louder. I eased back into the breakroom, leaving the door open a crack, and watched as a group of five men in black hooded cloaks of rough cotton processed down the hall. They looked straight ahead, faces in shadow, not speaking. As soon as they were gone I hurried down the hall and turned into another doorway I remembered from my previous visit. It led into the warren of offices and cubicles off the lobby. Another group of ritual goers came down the hall while I crouched in the shadows just inside the door. I waited for them to pass then stood and carefully moved down a row of cubicles until I reached the door behind the lobby desk. I stopped and pictured the lobby in my mind, remembering Angela James emerging from the swinging door behind which I now stood. The security guards would probably be set up at the desk itself with a monitor to watch the camera feeds. I didn’t think there would be more than one guard in the lobby. The rest would be patrolling. I put an ear to the door and jumped back at a blast of static that seemed to come from only a couple of feet away.

“This is Presley. Sternwood, do you copy?” a voice said over the radio.

I heard a walkie clip snap and the guard in the lobby replied, “Sternwood here, over.”

“All clear on the east wing. It was just a fox.”

“Copy that.”

I hadn’t just heard Officer Presley’s end of the exchange from the guard at the desk’s walkie. The sound had been doubled, coming also from somewhere nearby. Curious, I prowled down a row of cubicles and found a desk with a laptop showing a four by four grid of security camera footage and four walkie talkies on charging stands. All were fully charged, their LEDs glowing green—probably extras for when the guards needed to swap theirs out. I separated two of them silently from their bases and eased back to the swinging door. I had a harebrained idea that just might work. The walkies were set to channel one. I changed both to channel two, then crouched down, leaning against the wall, and waited a minute, two minutes, five. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for. I would need to make a move soon. The head wound was making me loopy. Carefully, with infinite patience, I eased the swinging door open and placed one of the walkies just inside, leaning it against the wall beside the door jamb. I could see the guard’s back. He was seated at the desk, watching soccer on his phone. I eased the door closed then crept into an empty cubicle. I steadied myself, took a deep breath, then raised the walkie and pressed the transmit button.

“Sternwood, Mr. Jutting needs you at the chapel. Now.” I heard my own voice crackle out of the radio I had planted on the other side of the door, then Sternwood’s walkie clip snapping again as he lifted the device from his belt.

“Copy that. On my way.”

I heard him stand, and scrambled into the shadows of a cubicle. The door banged open and he hurried past. When he was well away, I rose and strode into the lobby. My pack was easy to find on the floor under the desk. It had obviously been dumped out and everything stuffed back in but nothing seemed to be missing. My phone and watch were in a side pocket and my belt was stuffed inside the pack. I didn’t want to alert the guards that I had escaped. If I took the pack they would know for sure. Instead, I took just the leather case that held my most essential tools and my phone, shoving both into my zippered cargo pockets. I could get a new backpack. On the desk were several items the guard had left when he hurried away—a wallet, a flashlight, and what looked like a stun gun. I picked up the stun gun and studied it. Were they legal in the UK? I couldn’t remember. There was a chance it could come in handy if I was confronted by any guards on my way out. I pocketed it and turned to leave but froze when I saw the safe where Angela James kept her master keys. Unbidden, a memory from my previous visit came back to me—I had seen that safe before. I couldn’t resist. According to the video I had watched, the safe had a button inside that allowed the owner to reset the fingerprint scanner. The manufacturer had somehow not noticed that the housing around the door had a gap large enough to allow a thin piece of rigid metal or plastic to be inserted and used to hold down the button. It was worth a try. I found a plastic ruler on the desk and quickly jammed it into the safe, pushing to press it against the outer wall where the button should be located. I imagined I felt something—maybe the slightest backward pressure like I might feel if I was, indeed, depressing an unseen button? After an anxious five seconds the safe beeped five times in quick succession and an LED flashed red. Following the procedure I had seen in the video, I pressed my finger to the sensor for a couple of seconds. The LED blinked green and the safe emitted a single, low pitched beep. Success! The safe, now trained to my fingerprint, popped open when I put my finger back on the sensor. I grabbed the keys, closed the safe, then slunk back through the door and into a nearby cubicle.

Crouched there, I checked my phone. It was eleven thirty-four. There were no notifications showing but just as I was about to put the phone away, a text from Ashna popped up on the screen.

—they’re almost all at the chapel. Just guards patrolling now. Second floor east wing looks empty at the moment.—

I typed a quick thanks then headed for the stairway Angela James had used when she showed me the flats, keeping low and moving from one cubicle to the next in case anyone came through.

Upstairs, the corridor was deserted as Ashna had promised. I just had to hope Saint Martin had gone to the ritual and wasn’t skulking in his apartment with his electronics all turned off. The lock was a thing of beauty—a Corbin Russwin mortise. I was glad I didn’t have to pick it. Angela James’ key turned soundlessly and the latch clicked. I pushed the door open a crack, stepped inside, and pulled it closed behind me, resetting the lock.

The flat was dark inside and still. I smelled cologne or maybe spilled alcohol—something aromatic like gin. I knew the layout from my tour and from studying the floor plans with Ashna. It was open plan. A short hallway led to the living room and kitchen. Above the kitchen was a loft that held the master suite. Off the hallway were a smaller bedroom and bathroom. I made my way down the hall and into the living room where moonlight from large windows illuminated the interior enough for me to see a desk against one wall, a sofa and chairs arranged around a dark colored carpet, a kitchen island. A rocks glass lay overturned on the carpet. Maybe the source of the smell. A sleek, silver laptop was positioned precisely in the center of the desk. To the side was a bundle of papers and a small lamp. I crossed the room, flipped the lamp on, and rifled through the papers. They were Wolhardt’s notes. I recognized the neat writing and carefully hand-lined charts. I should have been elated but, in the moment, I just felt tired and still shaky from the concussion. A shoulder bag was propped against the desk. I lifted it to the chair, unzipped it, and was about to put the notes and laptop in it when I heard a noise and froze. I heard it again—almost like a muffled whimpering, then someone thrashing and a wall being kicked. It was coming from the loft. There were stairs at the opposite end of the living room, leading up. I climbed them slowly. Upstairs I found a king sized four-poster. Saint Martin, hands and feet bound by duct tape, mouth covered also, was sprawled on the bed. His hands were stretched above his head and fixed with more tape to one of the posts. His eyes watched me suspiciously and he thrashed again, breathing hard through his nose. It was no use. They had bound him effectively. I went over and carefully peeled the tape from his mouth. He began gasping at once, taking in huge lungfuls of air. I waited for him to calm before speaking.

“Are the papers downstairs Wolhardt’s original notes?”

He gave me a suspicious look again. “Release me.”

“First I need you to answer my questions. If you cooperate, I’ll let you go.”

He considered for a moment. “Fine. Yes, those are the notes.”

“Why bring them here?” I asked. It didn’t make sense to me. Why had they even brought Saint Martin? “Were you still working on the solution? When did you crack it?”

“Yesterday. I gave it to him last night. He had another cryptographer go over my solution this morning. Some asshole American he flew in. No offense. They brought me here so they could keep an eye on me I guess. I didn’t expect this!” Saint Martin inclined his chin, gesturing toward his bound hands.

“Doesn’t surprise me. Any copies you know of?”

“None.”

“And your solution. Is it written anywhere? Saved on the laptop?”

“Only on the laptop. Except a copy I wrote out by hand. They’ve had me locked down. No internet access. No printer. They search my stuff. Won’t let me go out. It was part of the contract but I didn’t know how serious they were until I started the job. Jutting was here after they came in and grabbed me. He took the copy and put it in the pocket of his robe. He was wearing a black robe like a monk or something.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Maybe half an hour.”

I nodded, thinking. “Is the file system encrypted? On your laptop.”

“Of course.”

“What will I need to access the data? Passwords?”

“I’m not giving you that!” he exclaimed.

“I guess we’re done here then.” I got up to leave.

“Wait! I’ll tell you. It’s just a password.”

I copied it into a note in my phone as he gave it to me, character by character. It was long and complex. “I’m going to test this,” I said and left him, heading back down the stairs. It took me three tries but the password worked at last. “Where is the solution stored?” I called up to the loft.

“A folder under documents,” he said bitterly. “It’s called Enigma.”

I found the folder and opened it. “Which file?”

“Solution underscore final dot TXT.”

I opened the file and found strings of tabular numbers and letters. My head had started throbbing again and I was beginning to feel like I had been in the asylum for too long. I closed the laptop and shoved it in the bag with the notes. Back upstairs, I used the knife from my tool set to cut the tape binding Saint Martin’s hands to the post.

“You’ll be able to work your way out of that tape,” I said, examining the bonds. “It will take a while but you can do it. Meanwhile, I’m getting out of here.”

“Wait!” Saint Martin hissed. “I gave you the password. Take me with you. Jutting is insane. He’s planning a kind of ceremony. He thinks the solution points to some crazy magic spell.”

“I’m aware of that. I can’t take you though. Sorry. When you get yourself free, go down the hall to the right. There are stairs that let out into the grounds at the rear of the building. Get over the wall without being seen and you can cut across the fields and into town.”

“They’ll find me.”

“Sorry. I can’t help you more than I already have.”

I heard him struggling to sit up in the bed as I hurried down the stairs and out of the flat. I would need plenty of luck to get out of the building. But first, I needed to get Saint Martin’s handwritten copy of the solution from Jutting’s pocket. I didn’t want to leave him with any kind of proof that he had a solution before Wolhardt.