She knows those loose blonde curls and that habitual pout. The slope of the slender shoulders is not caused by dejection; it is there whether the girl sits in a chair or dawdles through the churchyard carrying a package, which she then drops.

The girl travelling in the funeral carriage is none other than Lavinia Campbell.

CHAPTER 25

Dusk falls earlier every day. They’re pushing towards full winter now and Pearl yearns for it: the gentle gloaming against her eyes and hopefully more snow to soothe her heated limbs. Her skin prickles, seems to crackle with its fever.

Outside, wind slips between the limestone houses. She imagines stepping into it: feeling the cold currents strike her face and lift the hair from the back of her neck. This doesn’t have to be a dream; it’s possible. All she needs to do is don the outfit that rests upon her lap.

Pearl’s started to do this every night: take out the carpet bag and sit waiting for bravery to possess her, like the ghosts do, so she can put on the boy’s clothes and follow the map. But it turns out bravery is the hardest spirit of them all to catch. She calls and calls, yet it doesn’t come.

Her body’s so tired. Though it’s ready to give up, her mind isn’t. She hasn’t forgotten Myrtle’s words about how useless she is, and she’s determined to prove her sister wrong eventually. She’ll do something to help.

The clothes don’t smell like they belong to a boy. The men who touched Florence King were scented with tobacco, wine and bear’s grease, but Agnes’s nephew has his own musty perfume.

Gingerly, she unfolds the shirt and unfastens a but-ton.

Just that daring makes her head spin.

Not yet. Not quite yet …

Something rattles against the window. Pearl gasps and draws the clothes towards her chest.

She knows who it is: the murderer. He’s come for her at last.

Tap, tap.

It starts as a note played by one finger but then it is a hand, maybe two, patting the glass, seeking admittance.

The killer can’t reach her, can he? He’d need to break through the glass. And if he did she could run into the next room, screaming for Myrtle.

She puts down the clothes and takes a deep, steadying breath. This is what Myrtle was talking about: she needs to face up to things, not run away.

She crawls on all fours, very slowly, towards the window. When she gets there, she sits on her haunches and reaches a shaking hand towards the curtain. He can’t, he can’t get to her through the window.

The frantic tapping carries on.

Here comes the faintest whisper of what she’s been waiting for: courage. It allows her to clench her teeth and flick back the corner of the curtain.