‘Very well, ma’am, we will go and find him.’ Lord Henfield paused. ‘I take you with some reluctance, and would rather go alone, for it is unlikely that …’

‘You think he may have already expired?’ Miss Yate went white.

‘No, but the area in which he resides is not … is not suitable for you to see.’

‘But I am his sister, my lord, and it is my duty and desire, however unsuitable. I shall … be resolute.’

It had been worth the attempt, thought his lordship, calling for the bill.

Miss Yate, walking upon his lordship’s arm, and with the basket-laden maid behind them, thought that Lord Henfield had been over-sensitive as they made their way towards Carfax, and then turned left. The impressive grandeur of Christ Church looked more than respectable. However, once they crossed the road and headed south and westward she began to cling more tightly. The streets were narrow, and filthy. Barefoot children scampered like rats, a man sat upon a house step, hunched, and with a large bottle of spiritous liquor at his side, slatternly women with grimed hems and greasy necklines watched them with hard and calculating eyes. Matty the maid gripped the basket in fear of it being snatched from her. A man in clerical garb, but fading from black to a greenish hue, was coming towards them. He looked tired. Lord Henfield, much relieved that here was someone who might give them honest directions rather than send them into a blind alley to be robbed, showed him the scribbled address.

‘Ah.’ The priest looked at Miss Yate. ‘Are you sure?’

‘It is the address where my brother lies ill, sir,’ said Miss Yate softly.

‘Ill? I see. I think it perhaps best that I lead you to it. My presence may …’ He looked at Lord Henfield, who nodded understanding. The odd quartet threaded their way via a narrow alley to a house with a door that had a man standing before it in the manner of a guard. The priest, who had named himself as the Reverend Octavius Preston, spoke to the man, who touched his forelock with a grudging respect, but remained impassive, and denied the presence of any ‘sick coves’ within. Upon further pressing, he agreed to speak with his employer, and opened the door just enough to slide within.

‘You know who lives here, Mr Preston?’

‘Yes, my lord, and he is not one who is known for his … charity. In short, he owns both properties and, in effect, those within them, in this parish. He is not an honest man.’