Everything about the doctor was sharp, from the arrowhead of his widow’s peak, to the razor edges of his cheekbones and nose. Twin ovals of cut glass magnified Schalke’s blue eyes and his mouth slashed downwards from left to right, barely moving as he talked.

‘All of the symptoms,’ he said, his accent muted German. ‘On all of the databases, you understand?’

His assistant, a petite young lady in an expensively cut grey suit, nodded several times, tapping the instructions on to the screen of her smartphone.

‘Universities too?’ she asked.

‘All,’ said Schalke, accompanying the word with an impatient nod. ‘Did I not say all? Do you not understand my accent? Is it because I am from Germany coming?’

‘Sorry, Doctor,’ said the assistant contritely. ‘All, of course.’

Artemis approached Doctor Schalke, hand outstretched. The doctor did not return the gesture.

‘Contamination, Master Fowl,’ he said, without a trace of apology or sympathy. ‘We have not determined whether your mother’s condition is contagious.’

Artemis curled his fingers into his palm, sliding the hand behind his back. The doctor was right, of course.

‘We have never met, Doctor. Would you be so good as to describe my mother’s symptoms?’

The doctor huffed, irritated. ‘Very well, young man, but I am not accustomed to dealing with children, so there will be no sugar coating.’

Artemis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Sugar coating.

‘Your mother’s condition is possibly unique,’ said Schalke, banishing his assistant to her work with a shake of his fingers. ‘From what I can tell, her organs seem to be failing.’

‘Which organs?’

‘All of them,’ said Schalke. ‘I need to bring equipment here from my laboratory at Trinity College. Obviously your mother cannot be moved. My assistant, Imogen, Miss Book, will monitor her until my return. Miss Book is not only my publicist, but an excellent nurse too. A useful combination, wouldn’t you say?’