Guy wiped at his face with his coat sleeve. “I need to get home,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Will you—are you coming along, Miss Daly?”

She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak in that moment.

They walked toward the watchmaker’s, passing other rows of shops. Cheery light emanated from some of the flats above, but at this hour, most of the windows were dark, lace curtains drawn across them for the night. Awnings were pulled down, CLOSED signs upon the doors.

Quietly, Guy said, “Are you going back to the Chronicle tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’m to meet Mr. Boyd, the new proprietor.” Catherine fidgeted with the ties of her bonnet. “Might I have some paper when we get in? I’d like to write to my family.”

“Certainly.” After a pause, he added, even quieter, “I’d like to hear more about them, if you’re inclined to tell me.”

And so she did. She spoke of her mother and father, how good and kind they were. She recalled times when she and John and Anne had rolled down wet hills in the rain, when they’d fallen asleep in the fields on summer nights. A lump rose in the back of her throat, her vision blurring as they neared the green front of the watchmaker’s shop. At the front step, Guy looked to her, and his eyes widened. “Apologies,” he said. “I’ve upset you.”

Catherine smiled even as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “No, no. You’re quite all right, Mr. Nolan.”

He turned away. Bringing a hand to the door, he picked at a flake of peeling green paint. He said something, but she didn’t catch what it was.

“Pardon?”

“I said you may call me Guy, if you like.” In the lamplight, she saw the flush of pink across his face. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“In that case,” she said, voice soft, “you must call me Catherine.”

Guy smiled at her, his eyes bright. He said, “Catherine,” as if only for the sake of it, the delight of doing so.

She grinned back. “Yes, Guy?”

He ducked his head, blushing still, and took out his key. “I’ll fetch you some paper,” he said, opening the door.

They sat together in the kitchen as she wrote her letter.

Tending to the fire, Guy said, “I plan on going to the chemist’s tomorrow.”

Catherine paused in her writing. A lit candle before her on the table cast warm light over the still wet ink. She said, “There’s medicines that might be used as poisons. If we made inquiries—if anyone from the print shop bought something of such a nature, that would help greatly in narrowing down suspects.”

“We need to determine what sort of poison was used,” said Guy. He set down the poker, leaning an arm against the mantelpiece. “There’s plenty of things that can work as a poison. If indeed Mr. Ainsworth was poisoned. Are you quite certain?”

Catherine put aside her pen. “I think his body will be in the hospital morgue.”