She noticed a pile of papers on a low table next to a seat by the fireplace, which upon closer inspection appeared to be hand-written. Sarah edged close enough to take a look, expecting to find medical notes. To her surprise she discovered that Dr Fowler appeared to be writing a story, perhaps even the early stages of a novel. She skimmed a paragraph, further surprised to discover it written from the point of view of a woman. It appeared to be a tale of anguish and deprivation. She wondered if he had been reading Charles Dickens. She wondered also if Dr Fowler was not merely unmarried, but lonely.

The parlour door opened, interrupting her reflections. She took a guilty step away from the table as Dr Fowler entered, looking to all intents and purposes like the human embodiment of his care-worn fixtures and fittings. His clothes appeared to be as old as he was, all frayed edges and loose threads. He seemed surprised and not entirely happy to find Raven standing at his fireside. Sarah was ignored so completely that she might as well have been invisible, her worry about how she might be introduced rendered superfluous. He prefers his women fictional, she thought.

‘Dr Raven. I had not expected to see you again.’

‘I apologise for this impromptu visit, Dr Fowler, but there is an important matter that I must discuss with you.’

Their host indicated that they should sit. Sarah lowered herself into a chair, fully expecting a plume of dust to rise up from the upholstery as she did so.

‘I have some questions about the Porteous case,’ Raven began.

Fowler shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable.

‘I regret ever having involved you in it,’ he said.

Raven pointedly ignored this and continued: ‘Greta Porteous said her mother died shortly before George, and she seemed concerned that she also might become ill. She seemed to believe her brother and her mother succumbed to the same disease. And yet she told me you had informed her that it was a failing heart that led to her mother’s death.’

‘Mrs Porteous was ill for a longer period than George, a number of weeks. The family engaged the services of a nurse to help look after her and it seemed as though she would recover. But her illness was of a relapsing and remitting kind. At times she seemed to rally – under my instruction, of course – and then she would worsen.’

‘Did you notice any similarities in the symptoms?’

‘There was a degree of delirium, I suppose. Some days she would seem quite lucid and other days she was tormented as though haunted by spectres. They do say that those who are closest to death are most able to see the world that lies beyond it.’

Sarah snorted and then attempted to cover it up with a sneeze. The proliferation of dust at least made this seem plausible enough.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.