“I do not remember,” Clifton told her. “There are months after my wife’s death that I recall hardly at all. She went away to stay with her sister, and in truth I was glad to see her go—at least I thought I was. We’d argued often, almost always about Liston. She wanted him educated, fancied up like a gentleman. I told her Top Withens is no place for a weakling, and it will never be a grand house, no matter how much you dress it up.” He stopped talking for a moment, remembering. “I should have made her happy. I could have—I loved her enough. My sin is that I chose not to. I do not remember the summer after my wife died because I was lost—lost to drink and . . . other influences, Miss Brontë. I admit it.”

“If you can’t remember those months, then how can you be sure that you have nothing to do with the hidden bones?” Anne asked him frankly.

Clifton Bradshaw studied her face for a long moment. “I would know it, as I know all of my sins and name each one every day. In any case, I have something better than my memory.”

Bradshaw got up, crossing the flags to a great dresser of dark oak that was bolted against the furthest wall. Removing an iron ring clanking with keys that he kept on his belt, he unlocked one of the cupboards, revealing shelves of what looked like bound ledgers, and it was indeed two of these volumes that he brought back to the table, dropping them onto the surface with a carefully measured bang.

“I have my records. My father taught me that not a penny goes in or out of this farm without it being accounted for. Everyone who has ever worked up here, be it for a week or for thirty years, like Bess, is recorded in these books. In fact, that year it was Bess who kept the books for me. I cannot know if those recorded in here were honest about their names and ages, and I do not care. The point is these two volumes are my memory for that year, more detailed and exact about the comings and goings than any human mind. And you are welcome to them.”

Emily stood up as Anne drew one of the thick books towards her, standing at her sister’s shoulder as she opened it and scanned the pages with her finger.

“Why didn’t any of your workers stay for the whole season?” she asked after a few minutes of careful inspection. “Many seemed to move on after only a few days.”