I beckoned to Clara and she took the magnifying glass and peered down. Then gasped. She saw what I saw. An image scorched into the dead woman’s eye! A black-bonneted woman, like some horrible ghoul.

I examined my gloved fingers. The white cloth was stained red where it had come into contact with the corpse’s waxy skin. ‘What is this stuff?’

Fortunately, we gained access to a laboratory close by. A factory laboratory where they concocted dyes for cotton and that sort of stuff. And by ‘gained access’, I mean we broke in. I did some quick tests, only occasionally resorting to using technology that wasn’t available in 1893. I do like a challenge.

‘Wow. Gosh,’ I said at last. ‘Wow! This is nasty. An organic poison. A sort of venom. And you think it’s connected to Sweetville?’

‘I do,’ said Thursday.

‘Well, then. We need a plan!’

Said plan found us only a very short time later standing opposite Mrs Gillyflower herself. Quite a woman, I have to say. Is imposing the right word? Maybe terrifying. Yes, terrifying that’s it. Swathed in black like a great greasy crow (I was put in mind again of the Black Guardian and his interesting taste in hats) and her eyes like little jet brooches, glittering with intelligence and malice. I’ve met some right terrors in my time – from Omega to the terrible Zodin – and I knew at once that Mrs G was a wrong ’un.

‘Doctor and Mrs Smith!’ she said with a grin. ‘Oh yes. I think you’ll do very nicely.’

We had assumed these clever aliases and I had mastered a pitch-perfect Bradford accent with which to sell the deception. ‘Grand. Smashing,’ I said. ‘The missus and I couldn’t be more chuffed, could we, love?’

For some reason Clara rolled her eyes.

*

Minutes later, we were out on the cobbles of Sweetville, an absolutely charming place, I must admit, all rows of neat and pretty houses with coloured bunting hanging from their doorways, like every day was a holiday. Clara and I walked arm in arm (which is what married couples do. I’ve read it in books) while Mrs Gillyflower sailed on ahead like a dreadnought at full steam.

‘Sweetville will provide you with everything you need. You will never have to worry about a thing. Ever again.’

I really should have noticed the relish with which she said that last bit.

Clara piped up. ‘May I ask a question, Mrs Gillyflower?’

‘Of course, my dear.’

‘The name. Sweetville. Why not name it after yourself? After all, it’s your creation.’

She had a point. I ran with it. ‘Gillyflowertown?’

Mrs Gillyflower laughed lightly.

‘Gillyflowerland!’ I continued. ‘You could have rollercoasters!’

Mrs Gillyflower bent her head. ‘It is named in tribute to my partner.’

‘Your late partner?’ I asked.

‘No. My … silent partner. Mr Sweet likes to keep himself to himself. Shall we press on?’