The hallway is washed in the smell of library: melancholy scholarship, paper and dust mites. There’s no trace of the shut-in old lady smell, the powder and outmoded perfume. Instead, there’s a hint of beeswax from the furniture, damp oil paint and turpentine, but above all the autodidact scent of knowledge. It is almost too much, too self-conscious, like a stage set built to house Leonardo da Vinci or Albert Einstein. This person is bookish. Neith glances down a hallway and sees, yes, more books. The Inspector reaches to her terminal to call up the plan of the house from her files, then remembers that it won’t work, that Hunter cut this place out of the grid with a deliberate hand. She tries anyway, but the isolation is effective. She looks at the walls, wondering where the cage is—where, beneath the plaster, are the struts that catch the carrier signal. She shuts her eyes and remembers the shape: the corridor leads to a guest bathroom full of junk—although she wonders at that judgement now, wonders whether anything here is truly "junk." What might the cursory eye of a young Witness constable miss, in a pile of Hunter’s uncatalogued belongings? A Titian, perhaps, stacked against a glass box full of sailors’ knots.