“But we are not afraid, Mr. Nicholls,” Anne replied sweetly. “Indeed, we are in sight of our home, guarded very closely by Keeper, or shall be when he returns. And besides, who should we be afraid of meeting in the night, when the only suspect abroad is you, sir? Unless you are suggesting we should be fearful of you, Mr. Nicholls?”

“I, well . . . I . . . I . . . that is to say . . .” Anne felt sorry for making him feel so ill at ease—only a little, but even so, the remorse was there.

“The truth is,” Mr. Nicholls said when he finally found his voice, “that I find myself unable to sleep. This whole business, the discovery of the bones at Top Withens, the pure evil of it, all the talk in the village of the devil, is playing on my mind. It is as if you brought a great darkness down off the moor with you this night—” Mr. Nicholls stopped himself, as though just now remembering the tender minds of the three ladies he was talking to. “So it occurred to me to sit with the deceased and offer up prayer until the dawn rises and all is prepared for burial.”

“Well, you can’t,” Emily said bluntly. “Off you go, back to bed.”

“Arthur.” Charlotte stepped in front of them both, elbowing Emily back a step or two, and the sound of her voice speaking his given name brought a look something like ecstasy to his stupidly sensible face. “What Emily lacks the social graces to express adequately is that we three have already resolved to do the same. We have come prepared and in readiness for a long night of . . . observation. And I do believe that some may feel it inappropriate if we were to spend all night with an unmarried gentleman.”

“I see. Yes, I see, Charlotte,” Arthur said, though Anne was fairly certain that he would have agreed with absolutely anything that Charlotte said, no matter what it was. “Of course, of course, you are very much correct.”

“That you thought of such a thing is admirable and shows your great character,” Charlotte told him. “But let us keep watch this night. And perhaps, sir, if you return to your room, you may keep watch over us?” Charlotte gestured to John Brown’s cottage, where Arthur lodged.

“It would be my great honour, Charlotte,” he said, taking her gloved hand in his.

Anne felt a pang of sorrow for the curate when her sister removed her hand at once and despatched him with a return to her usual formality. “Thank you, Mr. Nicholls. Good night to you, sir.”

“You should both be ashamed of yourselves,” Anne hissed at Charlotte and Emily as she opened the door at last. “You, Emily, speaking to poor Mr. Nicholls as if he were the village idiot, and you, Charlotte, playing on his affections to manipulate him.”