He works his mouth, as if getting ready to spit, or cry.

‘I thought – foolishly ‒ But I received a letter. From the hospital. I was told only that the family had made their wishes plain. Concerned about any hint that she’d been an addict, let alone any suggestion of . . . self-murder. Though it could have been pure accident, of course. It happens. Ladies exceed their doses, having built up a tolerance, over time.’ He looks up. ‘I wonder whether ‒ Wilkes might have been pressured to make those wounds himself. But, regardless of who made them, they were made post-mortem. I’m sure of it.’

For the first time since that terrible night, my heart is still. But always that stabbing grief. And now rage as well. At Pears. At the Benham family. At Wilkes. Reputation is everything. I can see just how Sir Percy would have done it. Threats. Guineas. Sweet-talking. Thinking there had been one murder, what harm in making it two?

‘I’m very sorry,’ Pears repeats.

Oh, if he says that one more time, I’ll stopper up his throat.

You jerk your hat back onto your head. ‘Cut this long tale of yours short, Pears. The tests were never carried out. You’ve repented, you’re now prepared to swear, have assured me you won’t go clucking off this time, et cetera, and we hope – you’d better hope – that it isn’t too little, too late.’

Then you tell me, more gently, that Tomkin is submitting a letter to the judge as we speak, including a transcript of what I’ve just been told. ‘I don’t suppose it needs me to tell you we don’t have much time.’

Pears looks at me. ‘There was one more thing. I didn’t believe the wounds sustained by Mr Benham were consistent with the knife that had been produced. That knife was double-edged, and the gashes were too narrow. I suggested that another search should be made, for some instrument that could cause the skin to contract around it after it had been pulled out.’

This I do not want to hear. I take a step back. There’s a rattle from the street. A cart overturning. Rocks pelted at the walls. I hope you’ll think that’s why I jump.

‘Are you all right? Miss Langton?’ I hear you, from far away: ‘She’s overcome, and no wonder. There has been an egregious miscarriage of justice, and you had no small part in it . . .’

I put my hand to my throat. I’ll tell Pears. I’ll tell him. No search would have found that weapon. Here it is. Memory, clear, cold. Where it has always been. Benham’s face. He’s shouting. I’m shouting too. His face twists in front of me. The scissors twist. My hands.

But you’re already preparing to leave, which I tell myself gives me permission to say nothing. Before you do, you ask me to focus on the events of that night. You say it will help my case to remember as much detail as I can. Anything I can think of, which you will put together with Pears’s word. ‘Best as you can remember.’ Give me something I can save your neck with. My best hope now is to throw myself on the court’s mercy, you say. No hope for a pardon, but leniency, perhaps.