She hears the words, ‘terrible accident’, and ‘loss of mother’, then ‘dredged up old associations’. Simon is clearly explaining how Cedric came to be in her care, rather than his own.

She rests her elbows on the chipped table. Misery and guilt seem to be ingrained within the wood. She wonders how many people have sat here in utter despair. One of her predecessors has carved shapes with their fingernails; another has left a stain that looks like blood. She shudders, imagining the miscreants and blackguards who must have occupied this very same chair.

Her stomach growls. She cannot remember when she last ate. It is hard to focus on anything except Cedric. What is she going to tell Mamma? Anything but the truth. She shakes her head, unable to believe she has been such a colossal fool.

Each time she has an item or person of value, she loses it.

The door creaks, making her jump. Simon enters, alone.

‘What is it, what did he say?’

Simon spreads his hands in that conciliating gesture of his. ‘The police will do everything within their power. They have instructed me to take you home, in case the boy returns.’

Go home? That would feel as bad as giving up, resigning Cedric to his fate. ‘But I have not told them—’

‘I knew how upsetting it would be to explain the … circumstances surrounding Cedric. Consider the matter in hand. The police shall deal directly with me from now on.’

Her mouth falls open. She has never felt more impotent, more inconsequential. Does Simon really expect her to sit at home and do nothing? It was his reluctance to act that caused this mess in the first place! And he cannot have given Sergeant Redmayne the full story, because he does not know it himself. There is so much she has not told him.

Her shaking fingers fly to her reticule. ‘But the proof! The notes. Surely they need this? It is evidence!’

Simon examines the heap of paper she has tipped out upon the table. His face turns white. ‘Where – where did you find these?’

‘I told you before: in Cedric’s bed, in his pocket, under the door. I told you the murderer was writing me notes.’

He is holding himself remarkably stiff and still. His eyes do not leave the pieces of paper; it is as though they have turned him to stone. Agnes has a wild urge to slap him, spit at him, do something to shake him out of this lethargy. Any other man would be frantic with worry for his missing son, even if he is only a son by law.

‘Do you recognise the writing, Simon? It is familiar to me, although I cannot place it … We both agreed it could not be Montague. He would not do such a thing.’