A thin layer of dust had formed across it – the top shelf was reserved for books he seldom spared the time to read – and he gently pressed the spine of Getty’s Almanac of the Bestial with one long finger. At his tender touch the book slid inwards, just an inch, then sprang back into place with a click.

Beuphalus stood back and waited. After the gentle purring of cogs from behind the shelf, a wood panel on the wall quietly slid open with a whooshing sound reminiscent of a lover’s gasp. Almost ceremonially, the Earl reached inside the hidden alcove and reverently retrieved the ancient codex within. Cradling the tome in one hand he pushed the panel back across the small alcove until it clicked into place.

Carrying the book like a newborn baby, Beuphalus returned to his desk, pushing the clutter aside and laying the codex down as though returning it to the cradle. Then he sat and stared at his most precious possession.

The cover was plain and leather bound, though it had faded from years of wear. Round its edge was stitching of fresh cord, where Beuphalus had painstakingly replaced the previous hemp that had grown frayed over the decades.

Tentatively, the Earl reached out and laid his hand on it, feeling it, breathing it in. He knew he shouldn’t really open it until the dark hours but he couldn’t wait. It was like the book was calling to him, whispering sweet temptations like a back street doxy gently beckoning him from a night-darkened alleyway.

He curled his fingers around the cover and opened up the leather, revealing the crisp yellow pages within. The first page bore a simple sigil; a stylised V. Beuphalus caressed it, tracing the faded ink with his fingertip. He turned another page, cringing slightly as he heard the fragile leaf of the ancient tome crack. The age-worn pages only served to remind him of the book’s profane history. It was a reminder that what he was doing was wrong. It was forbidden, his secret vice, but it would be its own reward eventually… he had been promised.

As he reached to turn another page a tremendous banging sound echoed along the hall outside. Beuphalus froze, his eyes suddenly wide with fear. The heart in his chest was pounding and a sudden cold sweat began to bead beneath the cravat at his neck.

He was alone, his retainers had been sent home for the night. Who could possibly be in his tower at this hour? Perhaps a burglar, a footpad off the streets below, come to help himself to the Westowe fortune. Perhaps the Judicature, come to investigate him and his vile ‘hobbies’, bringing their chains and their billy clubs and their thumbscrews. Perhaps it was something far worse.

Quickly, the Earl concealed his precious tome back in its secret alcove. It almost hurt to hide the codex away so soon after its unveiling but it had to remain secret. He kicked the slippers off his feet and moved towards the door. Beuphalus reached for the handle, noting that his fingers were trembling as he did so, but before he could reach it he had a second thought. After stealing barefoot to the fireplace, he grasped an iron poker, then returned to the door. It creaked noisily as he opened it, revealing the long dark corridor beyond.

On one side of the passage was the same style wooden panelling that adorned the study, on the other was rough-hewn stone, interspersed with high windows that reached to the ceiling. Intermittently the dim grey light of the city encroached on the dark corridor, lighting the Earl’s way. He could see nothing ahead but an empty passage stretching out for twenty feet until it turned to the right.

‘Hello?’ cried Beuphalus. ‘Is anyone there? Mrs Rooney, is that you?’

There was no answer. If Mrs Rooney, the cleaner, had decided to work late she was not answering.

There was another sudden bang, this time louder and a lot nearer, and the Earl almost jumped out of his tailor-made attire. It seemed to come from just beyond the turn in the corridor.

Steeling himself against the fear, Beuphalus stepped out into the dark.