There is a spinning in my head, and a mewling, and then nothing but the quiet, desperate beating of my own blood.

I’m sorry.

I realize I’ve said it out loud. I’ve shouted. I’ve yelled.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Then, night squeezing in. Gaol-birds calling. The rattle of hearts in all those cages. Worst of all the way I shake and shake, like laughing, and cannot stop. Asking for laudanum. Begging. Give me just a thimble. A lick. The turnkey, laughing, shifting his breeches with his hand. Oh, they can get you anything, if you give them a mind to do it. But there’s a price. There always is.

If he leaves me alone, if he leaves me with nothing, I will see them. Snipping roses down to their blunt red heads. Pearl handles winking.

Morning comes, whether you want it to or not. The keys tell me you’re here. ‘You slaughterhouse hens, nothing but callers.’

I straighten my bedding, though there’s that awful quake in my hands. But maybe you’ve brought me something, some wisp of hope.

What you’ve brought is a man. A long sleeve of bones, twisting in his woollen jacket. He looks even more downcast than you. I see his eyes darting around, taking in the little pallet, the green mould curling up the walls. He wrinkles his nose. It’s a salt box, for God’s sake, I want to tell him, a cell for the condemned. It’s not supposed to be fresh.

‘This is John Pears,’ you say. ‘Who was to have been yesterday’s surprise.’

He rakes his hair off his head, grips it in his fist. ‘I’ve come here to tell you in person how sorry I am . . . Miss . . . Langton.’

‘Dr Pears was until recently assistant to Dr Wilkes,’ you say. The doctor keeps his head down. You give him a sharp look. ‘You’ve come to say something, Dr Pears. Say it.’

He sinks onto the mattress, hooks his hands on the great pegs of his knees. ‘I was present during the post-mortem of your mistress, Miss Langton. I told Mr Tomkin, last Friday – I ‒ I don’t know how to say this.’

You snort. ‘Best way to say something is to say it.’

Pears heaves the words out. ‘I don’t think she had any wounds to speak of when she was brought in.’

A stumbling doubt shakes through me. ‘She wasn’t cut?’

‘She was. But I think it was after the fact. When I came to examine her there were clear signs that those injuries had been inflicted post-mortem.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I think her wounds were inflicted sometime between the time of death and the time of autopsy. I conducted a very careful examination. I’m sure of it. The incisions were too neat, pale around the edges . . . such a small quantity of blood . . .

‘And when we opened her, there was a distinct odour in her stomach contents. A smell like bitter almonds ‒’