The doctor pulled back the blanket and Aunt Euphemia peered over, grimacing as she caught sight of alabaster skin and blond ringlets.

‘Is this Janet Clark of Kirkmichael House?’

The policeman had taken out a notebook and had his pencil poised.

Lady Cruickshank nodded and, just as the doctor was replacing the cover, blurted out, ‘Wait, what are those wounds at her head?’

‘The head injuries would have been caused as the body was buffeted about in the water, against rocks and so forth. It was nearly twenty-four hours after the accident till she was found.’ He pulled the blanket over Janet’s face. ‘Might I have a moment with you in private, Lady Cruickshank?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She looked at Ann. ‘Go and wait outside.’

Why did the woman treat everyone as a servant, thought Ann, shutting the door on the doctor and her husband’s aunt, who were now deep in hushed conversation.

It was dreadful, being so close to the corpse. The girl had been pretty, no doubt about that, but those wounds on her forehead were gruesome. How terribly tragic it was; she was someone’s child, sister, perhaps even wife. Someone somewhere must be grieving for the pretty girl with the flaxen curls.

‘Please tell her ladyship I shall be with her presently,’ she called back to the policeman, who was now standing at the door. ‘I am going to the first class lounge.’

He nodded then tucked his notebook back in his pocket.

Ann walked away, feeling rather faint as she recalled the doctor’s words about the head injuries. And this body was found only after a day… She couldn’t bear to imagine what the others would be like after a week in the water.

* * *

Ann looked around at the dozen other people in the room, all of whom were dressed in black. They looked haggard, exhausted, as if they had not slept in days. They probably hadn’t. Behind them were two long tables piled high with all sorts of items.

There was a cloying smell in the air, fetid and stale, and a reverential stillness. Ann stepped closer, to inspect the items. Here was a cap, possibly the headwear of an engine stoker. Here was a purse with shiny clasps and beside it a pair of spectacles, a pince-nez and a package of cards. She fingered these and saw they were temperance pledge cards for the suppression of drunkenness.

‘Daft not taking a drink your whole life if you’re going to end up at the bottom of the sea.’

Ann looked up to see a scruffy young man with a sullen expression, wrapped up in an oversized black overcoat; borrowed, she presumed.

‘Who’ve you lost then?’

‘My husband,’ Ann said, putting her handkerchief to her nose. ‘I think.’

He looked baffled.

‘What I mean is, I think he is among the passengers lost.’

‘See anything of his here then?’