“It could be Agnes,” Anne said, examining the ledger by lamplight as her sisters gathered round. “See, here, how the letter I presumed to be the first ‘n’ has a tail, as a ‘g’ would. And that ‘e’ could just as easily be an ‘s,’ or any letter of the alphabet for that matter. If it were hastily written, or drunkenly, it could very well be Agnes after all.”

“Where does Agnes keep house?” Charlotte asked Tabby.

“At Mr. Barraclough’s, of course,” Tabby said. “How do you not know that household when you have one of his own clocks standing in your hallway?”

The sisters exchanged glances.

“Surely this cannot be a coincidence,” Anne said. “Detectors do not believe in coincidences.”

“It is but a few steps to Barraclough’s shop,” Emily said, peering into the hallway, where she was checking the time of the very same clock. “I do not believe it is too late to call.”

“We should not draw conclusions until we have made a careful appraisal,” Charlotte cautioned. “We can make observations from a distance, gather what intelligence we may covertly, until we are able to reach an informed judgement.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Emily said. “If we are to win the game, we have to play.”

Anne felt a surge of fear at Emily’s assertion; even so, she was not about to let Emily make this call alone, and neither, it seemed, was Charlotte.

“Where are ye going now when you’ve only just got in?” Tabby asked as the three women hastily grabbed half-dried stockings from the back of a chair. But just as they were about to exit there was a knock at the front door.

“You stop where you are,” Tabby ordered them. “If that’s fancy people at the door, you can deal with them. I can’t be doing with fancy people on a Wednesday.”

“Isn’t it a Thursday?” Emily muttered.

“Martha,” Anne said, “please see who it is.”

Anne tapped her foot impatiently as Martha opened the door, but her agitation slowed to acute curiosity as she heard the well-spoken voice of a lady and Martha showing her into the dining room.

“There’s a lady to see Miss Charlotte,” Martha said with wide eyes.

“Oh, how dreary,” Charlotte huffed. “Is she the wife of a curate?”

“No, miss, an actual lady: Lady Hartley. Here is her card. She said to please forgive her intrusion, but she had a most important matter she wished to discuss with you, Miss Charlotte.”

“With me specifically?” Charlotte asked, delighted for a brief moment before the reality of having a fine lady awaiting her in their humble dining room sank in. “Oh dear.” She smoothed down her tangled hair. “Having spent all day with my sisters, I am in no fit state for a lady!”