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Harcourt smiled his professional smile. “Now, you came to me because you felt something was wrong, some probably frightening aberration which we will deal with later. Were you under pressure at the time.”
“A policeman is always under pressure.” Nevinson sighed. “Unfortunately this happened three weeks ago while on a holiday in Europe. Before I left everyone told me I should visit the Spatza, you’ve heard of it no doubt, one of the showpieces of the world.” He paused and shook his head. “Can’t quite recall what time of day I got there—was it evening?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Harcourt gently. He had been watching Nevinson closely for pupil-dilation and was relieved to see it had begun.
“Doesn’t it? No, I suppose it doesn’t, time isn’t all that—” A film seemed to descend over his eyes and he lost contact. He was still speaking but Harcourt and the consulting room had disappeared. He was living it again. He was back in the small European hotel which, although prohibitively expensive, was literally a museum piece.
Real glass in windows which opened outwards on metal rods, radiators, electric light, every piece of equipment in the hotel dated back five hundred years...
