But there was nothing dingy about the clothes. They were indeed a kaleidoscope of rainbow colours, crimson, mauve, emerald-green and peacock-blue, mingled with gold lame and silver brocade. There were coats and blouses embroidered with diamanté and sparkling stones and shawls with deep silk fringes, which sprawled unexpectedly over the threadbare carpet. Clothes –clothes – clothes, but no sign of the child.

Then, as if she knew what Carina was thinking, the woman on the bed explained,

“He is downstairs with the landlady. She brought the doctor. I shan’t live to get him there!”

“Get him where? “ Carina asked.

The woman on the bed shut her eyes as though she was attacked by a sudden pain. Her face seemed to screw itself into lines and she looked for a moment like a small sick monkey.

“To his father,” she replied and the words were almost shouted with a sudden burst of energy. “You are to take him to his father.”

Her fingers came out and entwined themselves around Carina’s hand.

“Promise you will take him and say what I want you to say?” she asked desperately, as if everything depended on Carina’s answer.

“I don’t understand,” Carina said quietly. “Where does the child’s father live and is he Lord Lynche?”

The yellow fingers seemed to tighten their grip.

“Yes, that is his name – Lord Lynche,” the woman replied. “Always he said to me, ‘we have no money. We can do nothing until my father dies. We are poor! Poor! I can give you none of the things you ought to have. But when my father dies, it will be different’.”

She gave a little cry, almost a sob, and then her voice sank away again to the low breathless murmur it had been when Carina entered the room.

“He is dead, dead at last, and now there will be money, position, parties, all the things he promised me and I shall not be there to enjoy them!”

“I am sure you will,” Carina said, moved by a sudden pity, for now she realised that the woman was not as old as she had thought she was when she first came into the room. Twenty-nine, thirty – or perhaps a few years older. But there was no doubt at all that she was very ill.

“No – no, I know the truth. I cannot live. I would not want to, for I can no longer dance. But the child – the child must be looked after and his father must be made to pay.”

The weak breathless voice broke off as a sudden fit of coughing shook the woman’s whole frame. Now beneath the bed-coverings Carina could see how thin she was.

“Yes, damn him, he shall pay!”

Lady Lynche’s voice was almost a snarl, as the coughing passed, leaving her with beads of sweat on her forehead.