I think of what it must have been like for you, my darling, faced with that horrible task. You made the decision for both of us. And when I think of your bravery in executing that task, my passion for you is renewed, strengthened ten times over. ‘A crime of passion’ is how they described it during the trial, that term splashed across the pages of all the newspapers. And they were right, in one way, but they were also mistaken. You didn’t kill Charlotte because she drove you into a passionate rage. You did it for me. Because of your love for me. Driven by that desire for us to be together, you plunged your knife. Agamemnon turning the blade on Clytemnestra.

Outside, a cloud is passing over the sun and the room around Leah darkens. Her feet are cold, her hands and face numb. She thinks of Anton and his tenderness towards her, his gentle care. The soft melodic sweetness of his voice as he sings while he goes about the house. The kindness of his eyes. The way he holds her gaze and listens – really listens. There has been a bond between them, a deep connection that she can no longer trust. When he told her that he had been wrongly convicted, she had believed him. When he had maintained that his conviction had rested on unsound and circumstantial evidence, she had allowed herself to be persuaded that he was an innocent man. People judge cruelly – she knows this – and he had responded to her own dark past with compassion, a feeling she had reciprocated. Over the past few weeks, she has come to think of him warmly, tenderly even.

But now, with the coldness of these letters invading her mind, he becomes recast in a new light. She pictures them together: Anton and Hilary. Lovers whispering in the dark, making their plans, Charlotte oblivious to what lay ahead. Words come at Leah now: Greg telling her that Charlotte was an unhappy woman, misunderstood. ‘He was very controlling,’ Greg had told them, that day in the garden, but she had dismissed those words, preferring to rely on her own version of Anton. It was easier to think of Charlotte as a drunk and a flirt, who made his life a misery but still he loved her. Easier to think that a terrible injustice had been done to him than confront the hard truth of his capacity for violence. But now, when she recalls him telling her how he loved his wife, how deep was their connection, she feels the hollowness of those words, knows them to be untrue. Jake hadn’t trusted him and now Jake is gone and she is alone.

Upstairs, there are voices, the creak of floorboards as someone crosses the room above.

Leah picks up another letter, and immediately her own name jumps out at her from the page.