“Look at what remains of the chimney breast,” Emily said, gesturing at the ruin. “The stones are fitted together depending on their shape and size. If we follow the same principle with these fragments, we should be able to reassemble them and make whatever was intended whole once more.”

So intent were the sisters on this work that they didn’t notice how each stone dragged and thudded on the damp floorboards, reverberating throughout the timbers that connected the old house to the new, or how their eager voices rose a little more each time they successfully added another stone, gradually building up a picture of the strange relic that had been left as a kind of seal over the burial place.

“I feel certain that this will give us a path to follow in search of the individual who left the poor child here,” Emily said, frowning at the strange design as it emerged. “We just need time to study it. I do not think we have it right yet; it seems disjointed and broken still. Anne, pass me my notebook and I—”

Before Emily could say more, they heard the sound of Clifton Bradshaw shouting below—such profane and ugly words that Anne felt her ears grow hot with horror.

“Bradshaw knows we are here,” Anne said. “Come, Emily, we must leave.”

“One moment more, if I can just find the piece that connects these two . . .”

“Emily, there is not another second to waste. We must go now!” Anne climbed to her feet, but her sister continued to move the stones as if they were pieces on a chessboard. Anne heard boots on the stairs, heavy footfalls approaching at speed.

“Emily!” Anne insisted. “Clifton Bradshaw is upon us! We do not have the time to make sense of this stone now. You are making enough racket to wake the dead, never mind old Bradshaw. If we are to reconstruct the hidden message, then we must take these stones away with us.”

“How would such a thing be possible?” Emily scrambled up, casting around for an idea. “Curse the dressmaker who does not sew a pocket into every seam!”

“Pillowcases!” Anne exclaimed, flinging open the doors of the closeted bed, dragging two mouldy and damp such items from rotten pillows. “Put in only the most important stones, and I’m afraid we will have to ask Liston for his help once again, for we cannot carry these ourselves.”

Just at that moment, the door exploded open, its frame filled with the furious bulk of Clifton Bradshaw, his fists balled, his face as red as blood as he thundered into the room surrounded by the strong stink of stale alcohol.