The Devil's Footsteps. John Burke

Fortrey looked at neither of them but at a spot in mid-air somewhere above their heads. ‘Very good, sir. I’ll reset a place here. Will soup and lamb cutlets suit both of you?’

      As there was no implication of any alternative being available, Caspian and Bronwen agreed that soup and lamb cutlets would suit admirably. It was not until Mrs. Fortrey had left the room that Bronwen took up the subject again.

      ‘The footprints?’ she prompted.

      ‘Yes. The footprints. You know of them, of course.’

      ‘I’ve heard some conflicting stories. Or, rather, fragments of stories.’

      ‘You’ve been to inspect them yourself?’

      ‘‘Naturally I went to see what the rumours were about.’

      ‘How many times?’

      ‘Just once.’

      ‘Then you have not verified whether or not they are advancing?’

      She regretted having been drawn into discussion of this subject, and resented his inquisitorial manner. ‘It’s not the most direct route into the village,’ she said lamely. ‘And I have been occupied in other parts this week—Thomey, and Croyland.’

      He nodded. His scepticism was all too apparent. Again she bustled. She had no intention of revealing to him the unease those marks had aroused in her, or her reluctance to go near them again. They were none of her business; and her feelings and conduct were none of his.

      Really, she ought not to have sat so readily at his table. When he invited her it had not occurred to him that she would refuse. How much more might he take for granted?

      Two dishes of rich vegetable soup, each a meal in itself, were set before them. As Mrs. Fortrey moved off, obviously eavesdropping for as long as she could manage it, Caspian set out with calculated loudness to question Bronwen about her work and about modern cameras and printing methods. She found herself expatiating on the aesthetic superiority of calotype over the admittedly more manageable emulsion plates now commercially manufactured, on albumen and carbon prints, and on possible substitutes for fragile glass negatives. He drew her out—truly he was mesmeric when he chose—on the niceties of naturalistic photography, tinted portraits, cartes-de-visite, and stereoscopy; and listened with flattering attentiveness to her own preferences in equipment and processing.

      He was particularly interested in techniques of double exposure, but when she thought to use this as an opportunity for turning the conversation towards his own occupation, she discovered how late it was. The meal had been ended for some time, and she caught herself about to yawn, her eyes stinging with tiredness and the upsets of the day. Caspian had suavely directed the conversation along her own line of interests, and revealed nothing of himself.

      As they were about to leave the dining room he said: ‘I may count on you, then, tomorrow morning? What time would best suit you for taking photographs of the footprints?’

      ‘Dr. Caspian, you have given me no hint of your reasons for interest in this matter. I’ve told you a great deal about my own work. So far I know nothing of yours.’

      ‘I’m a magician.’

      ‘Seriously, I mean.’

      ‘Most seriously I mean,’ he said, ‘that I am a magician.’