‘Yes,’ Quinton went on. ‘If you wish the child to be raised properly, it would not do for him to grow up in a household empty of furniture and besieged by creditors.’

They both looked expectantly at Simpson, who nodded solemnly.

‘Quite,’ he said, a calm warmth to his face, met by relief on those of the Quintons.

‘Dr Raven did say that you would be both generous and understanding,’ Quinton simpered.

Undeservedly so in this case, Raven thought.

‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ said the professor. ‘Under the circumstances, I feel it my duty to provide you with appropriate financial assistance in order to get yourselves out of this situation.’

Raven had to rein in his instincts. He had long since learned how boundless Simpson’s compassion could be, but in this instance it seemed almost unseemly given what this man had done, and to both of them.

Simpson reached into his pocket and produced his wallet, Quinton drawing closer, eager and expectant.

The professor drew out a five-pound note and handed it over.

‘I think this ought to be adequate.’

Quinton held up the note as though it were a filthy rag found upon a midden.

‘Five pounds? How on earth do you propose we extricate ourselves from our debts with this?’

‘It should be adequate to pay for travel back to Oxford, thereby ensuring that I never have to set eyes upon you again. It’s that or Calton Jail. And on the basis of the evidence before me, only the latter deserves its reputation.’

SEVENTY-NINE

t was a source of pleasure for Sarah simply to walk so far, after being confined first to bed, then to home, and then only incrementally able to venture any distance. The dull weight in her legs was a mere precursor of how she would feel tomorrow, but she welcomed the coming ache amidst her profound gratitude for the restoration of something she had previously taken for granted.

This trip to Warriston Cemetery was not merely the occasion of a brisk stroll, but something of a pilgrimage, a worthwhile diversion on her way to another piece of business she wished to attend to that day.

She had visited Archie’s grave first, and now she was standing over that of Mrs Glassford. She clutched a small bunch of daffodils she had picked on the walk here.

Sarah crouched to place them carefully against the marker. She had been concerned that they would look scruffy, but in the event, they appeared to be the first flowers laid upon this plot. It served as a reminder that Mrs Glassford had not only lost her husband but was also estranged from her family.

Was a lonely death the price a woman paid for not accepting the roles that men allocated her? For seeking autonomy, independence and a purpose beyond that of wife and mother? If so, then such women were unblessed martyrs. She deserved not a modest headstone but a mausoleum.