The village of Loblieby was a damp, sleepy place. The morning the train arrived from Saint Ives, the early fog had not yet lifted, laying over the town square like twilight, muting the verdigris of the foliage and the red brick of the buildings’ façades.

Elie Doolittle took it all in as they strolled into the square. The train station was situated fully a mile down the road, making Loblieby that much more isolated. All of Cornwall, from what Elie had seen, was open and flat; with few trees or anything else to block the wind, it was a cold, quiet, dreary place. Not a single person out in the square, even at midday.

“Time for lunch,” Seamus declared, having pulled Mister Fish’s pocketwatch clear out of his partner’s waistcoat pocket. While traveling Seamus was driven by two...

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