“Miss Brontë.” Anne took his hand and shook it, putting Mr. Markham at an even greater disadvantage, as he was taken somewhat off guard by her businesslike demeanour. “My colleagues and I are making enquiries on behalf of our employers . . . Bell Brothers, solicitors—you have heard of them?”

Mr. Markham blinked, uncertain of how to reply. “Certainly the name does ring a . . . bell,” he replied, blushing furiously.

“Excellent. We simply require a few minutes of your time to talk in private.” Anne smiled slightly as she fixed him with her implacable gaze. “For though you may not know it, you might hold the key to saving a young boy’s life.”

Mr. Markham held Anne’s gaze for a moment longer before nodding decisively.

“James Cranton!” Markham called to one of the older boys at the back of the classroom. “Please take over leading the recitation of our exercises. I will be but a few minutes. If I hear anything but the sound of earnest learning coming from within, there will be consequences—am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the boys droned in response, but none seemed overly concerned by this threat. Though he must have been twenty-five at least, Mr. Markham looked barely older than his charges, his cheek still as smooth as a child’s. Even so, his serious expression endeared him to Anne, who did so prefer people who were sensible to moments of gravitas.

“The classroom is terribly cold,” Anne mentioned to Mr. Markham the moment they were out of the door. “I imagine it is very hard to learn well when one’s fingers and toes are blocks of ice.” She had not meant to comment, but her words revealed themselves upon her lips before she was aware she had thought them.

“Yes, we are all very cold,” Mr. Markham agreed, dropping his head as he led the sisters into another classroom that looked as if it had been used quite recently. A number of times tables were still written out on the board in a feminine hand that did not match Mr. Markham’s, Anne observed. Perhaps Mrs. Poole also taught the children, though for some reason Anne couldn’t imagine that such a severe and angular woman could have such a delicate hand.

“Mrs. Poole allows us a small amount of coal a day, but it barely lasts an hour. We are a charitable institution—we must spend our funds wisely.” He recited a phrase he heard often, no doubt. “When I am paid, I buy extra coal for the classroom, but I am afraid to do it too often. Otherwise I suspect Mrs. Poole would withhold even that allowance.”