The weather remains dry, if overcast. Labourers are taking the opportunity to visit the Darby and Joan public house for a dose of the holiday spirit, even though the holidays have not officially begun yet. After her forced seclusion, the men strike Agnes as particularly brash and noisy. Even her nose is sensitive – she can smell sewage on the air.

‘Are you well?’ Simon asks as she cringes against him.

She nods, trying not to breathe in. He has told her she can see her family at last after they visit Pearl’s grave, and she will not give him a reason to go back on that promise.

When they emerge near Somerset Buildings, the spire of St Swithin’s church seems to pierce the mutton-coloured clouds. There is the low hum of organ music from within, and women singing carols. It is impossible to hear them and not recall Miss West’s voice on the night of the first séance. How sweetly she sang, for a fiend.

They round the church and progress further downhill through London Street. The place heaves and sparkles with the promise of Christmas. Holly, mistletoe and ivy please the eye through glass shopfronts; every man and his wife is trying to sell a turkey or a side of meat. There are wooden toys on display; hothouse oranges stuffed with cloves and the syrupy scents of a confectioner’s shop replace the sewer’s unpleasant odour.

It feels strange to see the world carrying on in this manner while Pearl lies beneath the soil. Flush-faced servants haggle as if their lives depended upon plum puddings. She wishes she could tell them how trivial it all appears beside the death of a child.

At last they turn left into Walcot Gate, where the air becomes cooler and more peaceful. The burial ground looms before them, its walls interspersed with black iron railings. Bald, ossified trees screen the view of the graves. Agnes tightens her grip upon Simon’s arm.

‘I have you,’ he says.

It feels as though it is an imposter who enters through the gates and passes by the mortuary chapel. Surely Agnes would not be brave enough to countenance the lichen-grazed headstones that slope towards the river? Yet somehow she does; just as she stood before Mr Meers’s terrible face without fainting. Perhaps this whole ordeal will end up changing her for the better.

The burial ground is shady, even though the trees have lost their leaves. There is a hush that feels gentle and kind. Gazing to the horizon, beyond the river that frightens her, she sees the roll of green hills.

There are no mawkish angel statues here. Simon leads her across some grass and down a line of identical markers constructed of grey stone. She does not read the simple engravings; does not want to know whose bones lie under her feet.