The police are too slow. Their station looks like it has been dipped in treacle and that is how they move: painstakingly, with no comprehension of how urgent her errand is, even though she has impressed it upon them several times. No doubt everyone is here on important business. But Cedric—! A missing child! Why are the policemen not galvanised with horror?

Perhaps she has gone mad. It feels possible: she is living at a rate twenty times faster than their insipid pens can scratch. Where, oh where is Sergeant Redmayne? Anyone of importance is shut away from her, behind doors with panels of frosted glass.

This place sparks memories of the Accident. How different that was. Back then, the policemen seemed to be ricocheting around the room at speed, firing questions with the rapidity of a locomotive train. Even the kindly inspector with a moustache, who had tried to prepare Agnes for the sight of her sister’s body, had spoken quickly. She only absorbed a handful of his words: caught up … dragged behind … spokes … axle … velocity. None of them were adequate to describe the smashed, skinned wreck she had finally identified.

Papa had once complained that Constance must be pure black inside. She was not. She was very, very red.

‘Miss Darken?’ Her head shoots up. Sergeant Redmayne has materialised from nowhere. His face is as large and stony as she remembers; it does, however, register a hint of surprise to see her. ‘This way, please.’

She stands up so fast that she nearly trips over her skirts.

‘My nephew,’ she begins, before they have even reached the little room he is escorting her to. ‘Sandy hair. About … four feet, three inches tall?’

Now that she has someone to listen to her, the words come confused and garbled. She has not slept. It must have only been yesterday that she stood in the wardrobe, but it might as well have been years ago; she feels that she has died, come to life and died all over again.

Sergeant Redmayne ignores her rambling and opens a door. Nothing much lies inside: a deal table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs, plus a pair of iron cuffs on reserve in case conversations should grow too heated.

‘You’ve remembered something about Boyle?’ he enquires, showing manners at last by letting her enter the room first. ‘Or Lewis? Your brother-in-law said he’d bring you down here for questions when you were feeling better.’ He produces a pocket notebook and throws it on the table before closing the door behind them. ‘There’s a few things in there I want you to help me clear up.’

‘Anything. I will tell you anything you like, only please send someone to search for him this minute! He could be in danger, he is all I—’ Tears throttle her. She is so exhausted that she has no defence against them.