‘Will I hear her?’ she asks quietly.

Myrtle doesn’t like to speak of Mother. A spasm of pain crosses her face and she purses her lips. ‘I haven’t. But you might.’

It would be worth it. Worth this awful, dirty feeling, to hear Mother just the once.

She forces herself to sit up and nibble on the bread. ‘And so no one’s been scragged? For killing this Mr Boyle?’

‘No. The bluebottles don’t even have a suspect yet.’

She shivers. ‘Then that means … There’s a murderer on the loose. Here, in Bath.’

‘Yes.’ Myrtle pats her hand, gives a wink. ‘That’s good for business, ain’t it?’

CHAPTER 3

For a sleepless night and half the next morning, Agnes debates taking Mr Boyle’s silhouette to the police station. Absurd as it sounds, she feels guilty keeping the discovery to herself, as though she is concealing evidence. When she looks in the mirror to fasten her hair, it is the haunted face of a criminal she sees: an accessory to murder.

Of course they will tell her it is a coincidence. She could not have caused Mr Boyle’s death by scrunching up his silhouette. But is it not uncanny? Something beyond the realms of an everyday occurrence. She has never squashed a piece of work before; she has never had a client die before. The two hang together with an ominous weight.

If not the police, then maybe she should seek out Mrs Boyle. Present her with the finished painting and include the ruined paper shade as an afterthought. Let the widow make the connection, determine some significance, if she can. Yes, perhaps that is the best course of action.

She puts on a lace collar and fastens it with a brooch. It has been so long since she paid a social call that she has forgotten the correct hours, and the form. Well, Mrs Boyle will probably be too deep in grief to notice if Agnes does not observe the niceties. All the clocks in her house will be stopped.

In the studio, Agnes wraps the glass oval and squashed silhouette in brown paper and string.

She checks the address in her ledger one last time before descending the stairs.

The grandfather clock ticks. Mamma dozes in the parlour with a rug spread across her knees. She has added fuel to the fire, again, wasting their scant resources while Agnes was upstairs. Cinders drop in the grate as if they are setting out to vex her, to show her how quickly it all turns to ash.

But there is another noise rising above that of the flames. A pathetic peep. It is so forlorn that it makes her heart clench.

Warily, she cracks open the front door.

‘Cedric? There you are! I missed you at breakfast.’