“We work on behalf of Bell Brothers, a firm of solicitors,” Emily told her. “A great fortune has been bequeathed to a person we believe to have been at this establishment in that year, whether inmate or employee we are not yet sure, but we must ask a great deal of questions before we can say more. And it must be now, before the fortune is returned to the treasury unclaimed.”

There was not a flicker of expression on the woman’s narrow face, and yet something moved her, and Emily was certain it was the mention of money. Even before they stepped over the threshold, she had the measure of the woman.

“Then you’d better come in. I am Mrs. Poole,” she said, her voice as thin as a reed. “I am headmistress here, and have been these twenty years. Please follow me.”

They followed Mrs. Poole into what had once been an elegant and lofty entrance hall, now painted in shades of grey and draped in shadows. Mrs. Poole, who seemed to glide over the stone flags like an apparition, led them into an office that smelt of carbolic, and was as neat as a pin and as bare as a dead man’s house.

“I was here in ’thirty-two,” she told them, taking a seat at her desk. There was only one other chair in the room, so all of the Brontë siblings stood, with Branwell, who had been sullen and near silent, leaning casually against the bare wall as if any contact with something resembling authority inspired instant rebellion. Mrs. Poole observed them all in turn for several seconds each.

“I have had many dealings with solicitors, and never have I seen any such as you. Three spinsters and a . . . gentleman.” She spoke the last word slowly as if it were not really pertinent when it came to Branwell.

“That you have never met any like us before does not mean we do not exist,” Emily said. “So please hasten to answer our questions. As I mentioned, this is a matter of urgency.”

“Well, I have been here since my dear husband, Mr. Poole, died, and a kindly benefactor saved me from ruin by finding me this position. This place and its occupants have been my life ever since. My calling, you could say, for I do believe that all children—even the lice-infested, ignorant, ungrateful little . . . persons who occupy this place—deserve a chance at bettering themselves as I have bettered myself. When I was born—”

“Please forgive me for interrupting you, Mrs. Poole,” Emily said, “but you see the truth is, we do not care about your personal philosophies. Restrict yourself to the matter in hand.”

Mrs. Poole visibly seethed. It seemed she was a woman used to extolling her own virtues a great deal. Even so, the prospect of money kept her civil and, more important, to the point.