Amy slid a glossy volume over to Harper. The title of the book was Diaries of a Mill Owner: The Truth About Selverton Village and the New Riverby Reservoir. It ran to four hundred and seventy-five pages.

“Did you read the whole of this?” said Harper.

Amy shook her head. “Don’t be silly. I just asked Tony if there was any mention of a missing girl, and he led me straight to the relevant parts.”

She indicated the first bookmark, and Harper opened the book and began to read.

Fourteenth of May, 1895.

I hear from Cook at Bishopton Hall that Betty Fairweather, who worked the looms at the Selverton mill with her father (God rest his soul), is missing. No one has seen her these three weeks last. She asks if the girl has been to me, to seek work at the mill, as by all accounts she did not find the Hall an agreeable place to work, though I can’t think why. She was more fortunate than many of the Selverton mill girls in finding employment so quickly. I admitted that I hadn’t seen her or heard tell of her. I cannot shake a feeling that no good has come to the child.

“Did Fisher try to find her?” said Harper.

Amy shook her head, and opened the pages at another bookmark, a later entry.

Twenty-third of July, 1895.

Today I was visited by Billy Rowles, one of the boys from Selverton village. He asked for work and I was able to oblige. I enquired as to whether he had heard any news of young Betty, since they were at school together. Without a trace of shame he told me a filthy rumour, some nonsense about Lord Pincher getting her in trouble before she went missing. For that I almost sent him on his way, but at the last minute I thought better of it. The boy was only repeating what he’d overheard in some dirty backroom of a public house. Still, it set my mind at rest about the poor girl’s fate. The truth is no doubt far more prosaic: Betty probably got into trouble with a stable boy or some such, then ran away to hide her disgrace. Girls are so wayward these days.

Neither of the women spoke as they took this in. Harper’s opinion of Fisher took a sharp nosedive.

“Is there any more?”

“No,” said Amy, “that’s the last mention of Betty.”

“Did you manage to find her in the city records?”

“I did. There’s a birth certificate, but no death certificate, which means it’s possible that the bones you found belong to her. But I’m afraid the trail stops there. Betty was an only child of two only children.”

“So there’s no way to compare our skeleton with Betty’s relatives, to check for familial DNA.”

“Not unless you dig up the parents.”