A redbrick house, it presented as pleasingly symmetrical, enclosed by sweeping lawns and mature trees that gave it an air of gentility and refinement promising a child a nurturing and secure foundation on which to build a life. In Emily’s experience, however, outward appearance was often a veneer, carefully pressed down in order to hide the secrets that lay beneath. The Crossed Keys Orphanage was no different.

Charlotte rang the bell. It tolled with sombre resonance that spoke more of funerals than of young and tender lives.

“Imagine arriving here, a child all alone in the world, to the sound of that bell,” Anne said unhappily. “It must feel like stepping off the edge of the world.”

“But better than life on the street, Anne,” Charlotte reminded her, “or in the workhouse or debtors’ prison. I pray God we will soon see an age when man no longer cages children for the sins of their fathers. We must be grateful to the great and good who fund such institutions as this one, for though it may be hard here, at least the children receive an education. It is a good deal better than scratching out a life in the gutter or working to death in the mills.”

At last the grand door opened, and a waft of warm, pungent air escaped from within: air that smelt of sweat and grime, boiled cabbage and—yes—desolation.

They were appraised by a tall, slender woman dressed in a mourning gown that was nevertheless embellished with a great deal more black ribbons, crêpe and lace than one might have expected from one in her position. As fine as her gown was, her expression and demeanour seemed to be made up of entirely vertical lines; even her main features were downward slashes of dour expression, her thin brown hair pomaded tight against her narrow skull, leaving a pale line of scalp running down the middle of her head.

“Yes?” she asked, imperious and dismissive.

“We are here on an urgent matter that requires your immediate attention,” Emily said at once, causing her sisters some astonishment, for Emily was not normally one to take the lead when it came to conversing with strangers. On this occasion, however, there was no time to lose—certainly no time for Charlotte’s niceties and manners, and all the rest of that time-consuming waffle. “You must show us your records of all inmates for the year eighteen thirty-two and allow us to interview any within who were present in this establishment during that year.”

“Must I indeed?” The woman regarded Emily through hooded lids that made her eyes appear almost entirely black. “For what purpose?”