She could not say the word “hanged”.

I glanced at my watch. This was not a time to rouse suspicion through absence. “Milly, pull yourself together. If anyone asks why you’re upset, say it’s because of Stephen –”

“It is.”

“There are other maids here, and you have two beds. Who else on this corridor could share with you?”

“They don’t have as many servants as they used to. Freda, the kitchen maid, she has two beds as well. She’d let me go in with her.”

“Good. And you explain that it’s because you don’t want to sleep on your own. You’ve had nightmares. No mention of any other reason, unless it’s the stags in the painting. Understood?”

“Yes. But –” Milly sniffled. She wiped her nose.

“Comb your hair, blink your red eyes and go for a walk round the garden, if the housekeeper doesn’t need you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll think of something. Meanwhile, say nothing about this, not even to Freda if you share her room.”

Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Early on Monday morning, I approached the prison. It felt strange to be here, ringing the bell, asking to be let in. Those on the other side of the gates, perhaps including the staff, would prefer to be on this side of the wall.

After a wait of about five minutes, the wicket gate was opened by a pale man of skeletal proportions. His vividly black eyebrows met as he frowned, and I saw that they were tinged with grey and white. Variegated-eyebrows man stared through eyes of stone. If it had not been for the uniform, I would have thought him the condemned man.

“Good morning. I’m Mrs. Shackleton, and am expected.”

Let that be true.

He said nothing but simply opened the gate wide enough for me to step through.

We walked across the yard and into the dimly lit entranceway. Here, it was colder than outdoors. We came to a stop by a bench, to which my escort nodded. I ignored his nod and remained standing.

The sound of footsteps heralded the appearance of the tall officer. Last time I saw him, he looked cheerful. Today, cheer had deserted him. He did not meet my glance.

“Would you come this way, Mrs. Shackleton?”

Another corridor. Footsteps echoed from the opposite end.

Stephen appeared, head bowed, his gait more shuffling than previously. There was no singing of “The Grand Old Duke of York” today. Slowly, he raised his head and gave me a look of such hopelessness that I felt a shiver.

Stephen’s escort came into the room with us. My escort waited by the door.

I was offered a chair in the corner. Stephen was seated at a table, his escort behind him.