He mopped her brow with the back of his hand and whispered in her ear, soothing words about Klara and Anton Offenbach and courage. All he could do was try to make her listen to whatever nonsense he could think to say, anything to stop her from slipping into unconsciousness.

He reminded her of the long, arduous journey that had brought them here. She had to stay with him to make it all worthwhile, what they had done together, the three of them, crossing northern Germany, braving the Baltic, flying through hostile skies to Scotland.

Within a few minutes, Cashbone was braking outside Addenbrooke’s Hospital.

But Wilde knew they were too late. There was no pulse, no breathing. Sunny was dead in his arms.

*

Wilde and Cashbone stood in the lobby of the hospital as the body of Sigrun Somerfeld was wheeled away on a trolley. Outside, the day would be lightening, but it felt to Wilde as though a pall of darkness had fallen on the world. He had no idea where his family had gone, and a woman with whom he had been through a kind of hell had lost her life. What had happened to this beautiful university town and its comfortable certainties?

The lobby was busy at this time of day, with shifts changing and day patients appearing for their appointments. Had Lydia come here instead – or had she gone back to Harry Taylor’s house? Surely one of those alternatives had to be the answer.

‘OK, buddy?’ Cashbone put a big hand on Wilde’s shoulder.

‘No.’

‘Me neither. She was a brave young woman.’

‘What now, Cashbone? What in God’s name do we do now?’

‘Nothing’s changed.’

He threw him an exasperated look. ‘You do talk some shit. Everything’s changed. You and your damned intrigues.’

He wanted to say, your conspiring has resulted in the death of a decent woman and has turned an innocent child into a fugitive. Would that have been too harsh?

You were right, Sunny had said at the end. Right about what exactly? Had she seen through Bodie Cashbone?

Through the melee his eyes suddenly fell on the imposing figure of Dr Rupert Weir, striding purposefully in his direction. As always, his large body was encased in tweed with a bulging waistcoat and watch-chain.

‘Rupert?’

‘Tom, thank God you’re here. I was hoping you’d turn up. We need to talk.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Edie was here with Lydia and Johnny and another child named Klara, who had rather a high temperature. I think she’s a German refugee. Anyway, perhaps understandably, Lydia had a bit of an overreaction to the little girl’s fever. I suppose she felt responsible for the girl’s well-being. As it turned out, there was nothing to concern anyone, so they were all reassured and sent home—’

Wilde didn’t like hearing this in front of Cashbone, but the information had tumbled out in a rush.