Jane saw that the infant was a boy of about four years old. He clung to his mother like a baby clings, the centre of his being pressed to hers, his arms fastened round her neck. When they got to the place where Jane was standing, the young woman reached up and laid her wet hand on Jane’s white shoe.

‘I know you,’ she said. ‘You’re the one they call the Angel of the Baths. Aren’t you?’

Jane regarded them closely. She saw that the boy was very thin, his little legs almost wasted away.

‘I used to be called the Angel, or so I heard. But I have been away for some time. I do not know who I am now.’

‘Then none of us should put our faith in you?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve come back to Bath, to do everything I can, but if I ever had any power to heal, I fear it is quite gone.’

‘Or perhaps it is not? Will you touch my son’s head and bless him? He is dying of consumption.’

The woman gently prised the boy’s arms from round her neck and lifted him up towards Jane. Jane saw the large brown eyes of the child afflicted with fear and pain. As she reached out her hands towards his damp head, she thought about a child she had never seen, Julietta’s little son, Marco. She closed her eyes, to summon an image of him in her mind, so that it was to him, the son of her beloved, that she directed a simple, silent prayer, ‘Let the child live and recover his strength and take his place in the world.’ But, straight away, the boy began screaming and his mouth filled with blood. His mother snatched him back, to calm him.

‘What did you do to him?’ she cried out.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jane said. ‘I’m truly sorry. I said a prayer in my mind. That was all.’

Jane took out one of the rags she always carried in the pocket of her apron and gently wiped the boy’s lips. He spat blood into the water and then was silent.

‘Are you the Angel or are you not?’ said the young woman crossly.

‘Perhaps it’s wiser not to believe in angels at all,’ said Jane. ‘We should rather put our trust in human kindness.’

The young woman walked away, lowering her boy gently into the water and hearing him laugh now, soothed once more by the warmth of it. Further off, Latimer had discovered that, despite his weakness, he was able to swim, but what escaped from his afflicted body was not blood, but a little chuckle of sudden merriment.

Jane watched them both: the child who’d had such a short life, but who was loved so dearly by his mother; the middle-aged businessman whose empty heart was snagged on the contemplation of architectural mouldings and who was, perhaps, loved by no one. They would soon be equal in death, the cold clay of England sealing them in darkness, while far above the great medical cavalcade which drew people to Bath in such numbers would whirl on, untroubled by its failures and its derelictions.