Eventually, he released her and examined her tear-stained face.

‘Grief can addle the mind. You must trust me, Harriet. You threw a spanner in the works when you consorted with that boy, I have to say it. But reason prevailed and three weeks from now you shall be my wife.’ He patted her back. ‘He’s had his licks. If I were him, if I could conceive of putting myself in his grubby shoes, I should return from whence I came.’

Harriet stiffened and he stepped back to scrutinise her face, holding her by the shoulders. She wanted to affect disinterest, but her reddening cheeks betrayed her. Her eyes filled with tears again and she flinched away from his huff of disgust.

‘What is the appeal of that low life?’

‘What do you mean,’ she whispered, ‘by licks?’

‘Cat licks.’

The kitchen door slammed and they heard Adam call out a greeting. Boothby’s fingers squeezed her shoulders before he let go of her.

‘No fewer than twenty-five cat licks,’ he said, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. ‘I was there, to witness it. I heard you had intervened on his behalf. It’s to your credit, my dear, that he finally had some sense beat into him.’

Chapter 39

The red and white bricked facade of the Royal Voluntary Hospital on West Street was spitting distance from Gunson’s office and he decided it would do him good to stretch his legs before returning home, even if that involved entering a cesspit of death and disease.

A viewing of the young man was required before Gunson brought the youth into his home. He could remain dispassionate, establish whether he was dealing with a nefarious individual, or a victim of mistreatment, as John Webster asserted. Charlotte had also spoken up for the boy, but his wife’s womanly qualities of compassion and pity, while admirable, might well have clouded her judgement.

He followed his nose to the main ward, trying not to breathe in too deeply the stomach-churning stench that seemed to be made up of a combination of cabbage, blood and dirty bodies. Every bed was occupied by patients in varying degrees of distress and nurses and visitors milled around. He recognised his doctor, Doctor Jepson, who volunteered at the Royal as he claimed, ‘for the experience of treating the variety of disease’, honing his skills at the infirmary, while making a private income from people such as Gunson who could afford to be treated at home. Jepson was surrounded by relatives at the foot of one of the beds, but waved his arm to direct Gunson to the bed at the end of the noisy room.

The patient he was here to see had no visitors in attendance.

His first sight of the boy drew a gasp he hoped went unheard. He lay curled up, facing the wall, the flayed skin of his back exposed for all to see, as vulnerable as an unguarded infant. Gunson was aghast. He moved closer to examine the wounds, shaking his head in disbelief. The boy would be deeply scarred for life. Whatever crime was alleged to have been committed could not have warranted such barbaric treatment. He moved his gaze to the head of dark curls that rested on the pillow; they reminded Gunson of his oldest son and he wondered where this boy’s people were. Obeying an urge to show some tenderness, he began to pull up the sheet that was puddled around the youth’s waist, but a young nurse hurried over and laid her hand on his wrist.