He does not shake her hand, barely able to hide his disdain. He knows this type of woman, all mannish pretensions and strong opinions on the incarceration of women. He watched dozens of well-meaning, well-bred young ladies like this one brought through the gates before the war – Mrs Pankhurst and her crowd. And he has seen plenty of women broken by Holloway. This one wouldn’t last five minutes.

‘I understand that you have Alice Dunning here.’ She peers out across the open courtyard, towards the inner gate of the prison. She can see two griffins, carved from stone, standing guard on either side of a great wooden door. The presence of these oversized mythical creatures, their eyes glaring, their talons clutching iron bars and a key, only serves to compound her sense that she should not have come.

‘Alice Dunning?’ The amusement in his voice irritates her and jolts her back into life.

‘Alice Dunning,’ she repeats the name as if he is simple. ‘The shoplifter? One of the Forty Thieves?’

‘I know who she is, Miss Littlemore. Question is, what business might you have with her?’

‘I heard that she’s just been brought in and that she’s awaiting trial. I’ve come to offer solace in her hour of need and to encourage her to repent.’ This is the sort of thing her mother’s friend would say. Isabel does not believe in offering solace to wrongdoers.

He raises his brows. ‘Solace? To Alice Dunning?’

‘On behalf of the parish, yes.’

He does not hide the chuckle. ‘Hard labour is what she needs, not God.’

It was a mistake to come here. He will not let her pass and she is making a fool of herself. She ought to leave the investigating to Jimmy Cartwright.

He reaches wearily for his helmet and gestures towards the courtyard. ‘Ah, I suppose it’ll be in order. You can give her some hellfire, if you like. We’re quiet today.’