His indifference towards the professor was a mere proxy for the lack of loyalty he believed had been shown him. His disaffection was not with Dr Simpson: he was angry with her.

But why? For marrying someone else in his absence? He had no right to feel there had been any kind of disloyalty involved. He had left her in no doubt that he saw no future for them beyond simple friendship, and even indicated that that might not be appropriate once he was a practitioner in his own right. He had been, and still was, too concerned with the appearance of things and the possible repercussions for his standing.

Reputation. Character. These were currency in society. As a woman she was just as constrained by them as he was; possibly more so. But to her mind that did not excuse his lack of concern for Simpson and his refusal to help clear the doctor’s name.

The door opened, and Dr Johnstone came in. He had the look of a bloodhound about him: reddened eyes, droopy eyelids and the flesh of his jowls hanging loosely about his starched collar. He might have looked comical or at least benign had he been smiling. But he wasn’t, for why would he?

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, and then, without waiting for an answer, demanded: ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

Sarah was aware that it was only a few short weeks since his wife had died. A lack of civility was to be forgiven.

‘My name is Mrs Banks.’

Her married name still sounded strange to her when she said it aloud, but, on this occasion, she thought that it might help lend her a degree of gravitas and respectability.

‘Young lady, you have not answered my question.’

‘I work for Dr Simpson.’

‘In what capacity?’

Sarah wished, not for the first time, that she had some form of official title to explain what she did.

‘I help with the patients.’

‘I see.’ It didn’t sound like he did. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Accusations have been made about Dr Simpson.’

‘Accusations?’

‘Yes. That he was in some way responsible for your wife’s death.’

Dr Johnstone drew in a deep breath. His brow furrowed and he began to look thunderous. The bloodhound was transforming into an attack dog.

She hurried on.

‘I do not believe that, of course. That is why I’m here. I wish to try and establish the truth of the matter and put an end to hurtful speculation.’

‘Is Dr Simpson aware that you have come here?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And what makes you think you have any right to ask questions on his behalf? Under other circumstances I would laugh. But I don’t much feel like laughing.’

He was glowering at her. Sarah stood up and started backing towards the door.

‘I am seeking to pursue this under the utmost discretion,’ she told him, her voice faltering.