‘I will have you learn not to be so hasty with your tongue,’ he said. ‘And to that end, I would have you describe the shape of a cross with that tongue.’

‘Where?’ I asked meekly, raising my head.

‘There. In the dirt. Let filth meet filth.’

The prospect moved me to protest.

‘But I said nothing. I only asked what news.’

He struck me with the stick once more.

‘Silence. You will use your tongue only for what I have commanded.’

I attempted to comply. I drew my tongue a few inches along the ground, wincing at the taste and the sensation, a horrible mixture of slime and grit. Then I repeated the ordeal, bisecting the first line to form a cross.

The Reverend struck me again.

‘A cross such as the Lord died upon was greater than the length of Himself.’

I began to cry at the injustice of it. I had no notion what Joyce had accused me of, but it was clear that the Reverend Gillies believed it of me.

I did not know what dirt was made of. Though the Reverend stood over me as I washed out my mouth until every last speck was gone, that night I was ill with a terrible sickness, and in the following days I passed more soil than would cover the whole yard.

It was what happened when you ate filth. You were poisoned.

TWENTY-EIGHT

aven waited on the doorstep at Albany Street, trying to compose how he might best express his change of mind, while wondering how long it would be before he regretted it. He hoped the sunshine of being restored to Sarah’s good graces was adequate compensation for the storm clouds likely to gather among his peers and superiors.

Mrs Sullivan, the housekeeper, answered the door.

‘I am here to see Sarah,’ he said, giving Mrs Sullivan what he hoped was a winning smile, a technique that Dr Simpson deployed with great success, and only possible now that his troublesome molar had been removed. A trip to the dentist the day before and a quick whiff of chloroform had seen to that. He had briefly contemplated braving the extraction without the aid of an anaesthetic, but his courage had faltered at the approach of the dentist armed with his tooth-pulling forceps.

‘Mrs Banks is not here,’ Mrs Sullivan replied, in a tone that suggested he had better be on his way. Raven wondered if perhaps she didn’t recognise him from his recent visit. The alternative suggested that Sarah had not been generous in her accounts of him afterwards.

‘Who is it, Mrs Sullivan?’ called out a male voice behind her. Archie.

‘It’s Dr Raven from Queen Street.’

Evidently, she did know who he was.

‘Do show him in.’