Sarah marched up the curved driveway, the towering edifice now surrounding her on three sides. It accommodated some two hundred souls in various states of disrepair, while the surgical hospital contained a hundred more. She was grateful that she had never had to enter either part as a patient. ‘Once you go in, you never come out,’ was the prevailing wisdom. She had at one time considered seeking employment as a nurse here, but Dr Simpson had dissuaded her. She would be left to empty bedpans and scrub floors, he said. She would be better employed at Queen Street. As she was a housemaid at that point, she had been dubious about this, but time had since proven him right.

She walked through the main door into the entrance hall, its grand staircase built wide enough to accommodate street chairs bearing the ill and the injured. It was beginning to show signs of its age in places but was clean and reasonably well maintained. ‘The want of cleanliness is a fault that admits of no excuse,’ her mother had been fond of saying, and it appeared Miss Peat shared this view.

Sarah had once asked Raven about the position of matron, wondering if it might be a suitable occupation for her to aspire to, but he had been dismissive. He had told her that a prerequisite of the job was being an unmarried woman or a widow with no dependents. This stipulation had been made after a previous incumbent and her daughter made off with several items of hospital furniture and four dish-covers purchased from Sibbald’s.

Sarah wondered how long would pass between the events that would make her eligible and then subsequently disqualify her.

She found the matron’s room at the end of the ground-floor corridor and paused before knocking. She straightened her coat and hat, hoping to present herself in the best possible light.

‘Come in.’

The voice sounded calm and even-tempered. She had braced herself for something more aggressive and hoped that her subsequent questions would not provoke the woman she was about to meet.

Sarah opened the door and entered the room. Miss Peat looked surprised to see her.

‘Oh. I was expecting Mrs Chilvers from the laundry.’

Miss Peat was sitting at a desk, a leather-bound ledger open in front of her. She was a woman of indeterminate age, wearing a grey cotton dress, a white apron and a cap. She had a long, thin nose, at the end of which sat a pair of spectacles.

‘I am Mrs Banks. We have an appointment.’

‘Yes, of course. Mrs Banks. Do sit.’ She indicated an armchair by the fire. ‘You are seeking employment, I presume?’

‘No. I am an assistant to Dr Simpson. I have come at his behest. An urgent matter.’ Sarah felt her cheeks flush at this glaring falsehood. She hoped the matron would not notice.

‘Assistant? To Dr Simpson? How unusual.’