‘The tales of the moor drew my attention. I am considering a monograph upon the subject.’ ‘A monograph?’ ‘A monograph, yes.’ They looked at one another, both men with secrets. Cabal’s was that he had no intention of writing a monograph. The landlord’s, that he had no idea what a monograph was.

Leonie watched him complacently. ‘You’re adorable when you do that, you know? Your injured-pride face would melt a puppy.’ Cabal’s expression was uncertain; he had seen a molten puppy once, and it hadn’t been that adorable.

‘My daughter,’ said Barrow, ‘tells me that you have done good.’ Here, Cabal paused. Yes, he had done good. By accident, as a by-product, by serendipity. But yes, he had done good. He just didn’t see why people kept wanting to rub his nose in it.