‘What about Adeline?’

‘Adeline …’

There was a puzzled look on her face.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t … I can’t …’

Hobbes studied Camilla, her every twitch, every little flicker of her eyes. She stared back at him, clearly uncomfortable under his gaze. She was fearful. He saw that now.

A scared woman, lost in her own loneliness.

He took a few easy breaths and held her gaze. Without emotion, he said, ‘Camilla … I don’t believe you. Not one word.’

He could sense Latimer tensing at his side, but he didn’t look her way, no, he kept his eyes forwards. He forced his suspect – yes, he saw her that way now – he forced his suspect to lose control.

‘I don’t … I don’t know what you mean.’

He didn’t let her finish. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re lying – about the house, and your childhood, and about Adeline, and about Adeline’s parents.’

And at this last statement, those few words, an extreme reaction took over, a craziness held barely at bay: her shoulders hunched and her hand squeezed the paper cup until it crumpled in her grasp. A sob escaped her lips.

‘Camilla, talk to me. What really happened?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’ She looked like a broken doll trying to come alive, and failing miserably. ‘I cannot tell you.’

Hobbes pushed the novel across the table. He quoted the title to her.

‘A Spell of Darkness.’

‘Yes.’ Camilla worried at her lower lip with her teeth.

‘Is this what you’re under now, a spell? A long-lasting spell cast by your family, your parents, many years ago. Are you still caught up in it?’

‘Yes.’

The single word was a dark breath only. And then repeated. ‘Yes, yes.’

‘Well, you have to talk. I need to know the truth. Because – and I’m going to state this plainly – I am puzzled. I have no clue as to what happened in that house, with the dresses, and the rips in the cloth, the bloodstains and the cellar.’ His words bit down hard. ‘There was a dress, buried in the cellar! A woman’s dress.’

Camilla flinched at his tone. She trembled. ‘I cannot. We will not. You have no right—’

‘I have every right!’ he shouted at her. His words echoed in the tiny space, and then died, and in the silence Camilla Greene collapsed into herself – head bowed, face hidden, both hands gripping the table’s edge. And she would not speak. Her fingers tightened. Her nails might break.

She was eaten by pain, halfway to darkness.

Latimer spoke softly: ‘Camilla, look at me.’

She did so, and she said immediately, ‘I am here of my own volition. Isn’t that true?’

‘Of course.’

‘So I can leave. I can just walk away, and that’s that?’

‘No. Not quite.’ The more Latimer spoke, the more her voice hardened. ‘If you’ve done something wrong, or if you know of any wrongdoing, we need to hear about it.’