Agnes cannot stop her ears pricking at this new intelligence. The sergeant never mentioned a cut to the throat. If that was the injury that killed Mr Boyle … well, it puts her artwork in a less sinister light. There is no incision there. Footpads slit Mr Boyle’s throat and smashed his face for spite. Or, as the sergeant proposed, to delay identification of the body. She must have been beside herself to think otherwise. This was a fool’s errand.

‘I have trespassed on your grief long enough,’ she begins.

Mrs Boyle bids her remain seated with a motion of her hand. ‘No. No, I beg your pardon. I should not have become agitated.’

Agnes would rather leave this suffocating room, but perhaps the widow is lonely.

‘You shall not want for anything, Mrs Boyle?’ she asks gently. ‘You have family?’

‘Our daughter is married to an excellent man. My grandchildren will keep me occupied, no doubt. I shall be as comfortable as one can be, once the joy of her life is gone.’

Agnes swallows. ‘I am glad to hear it. You are fortunate. When my own father died …’ She nods at the silhouette on Mrs Boyle’s lap. ‘Well, you can see. My pastime was obliged to become a trade.’

Mrs Boyle shuffles uncomfortably beneath the paper wrapping. She glances from the profile to Agnes and back again, as if it had not occurred to her that women of her class might fall into penury. It had not occurred to Mamma, either. If Agnes had not risen to the occasion, and Simon was not so kind, all three of the Darken women could have ended up in the workhouse.

Clearing her throat, Mrs Boyle reaches into the folds of her skirt. When she speaks again, the tone is more formal. ‘And you are most competent, Miss Darken. Permit me to contribute a little something for your trouble.’

Agnes holds out her hand and a silver shilling drops into it. The Queen’s profile, grimed in dirt, stares indifferently. One shilling for all this heartache. The charge for bronzing would usually be more, but Agnes would not dream of saying so.

‘Thank you, madam.’

Mrs Boyle sniffs. ‘I shall call for Mary to see you out.’

She closes her fingers over the coin. Was her hint so tactless? Surely she has done no wrong. She does care, she has not come purely for the money, but she needs it. She wants to be independent, not reliant on Simon for charity.

Of course, she will never be able to explain this to a woman like Mrs Boyle, who has coin to spare on frivolities such as spirit mediums. Patiently, she waits in silence for Mary to answer the bell and lead her through the gloom to the door.

‘Good day,’ she says with a curtsey.

Mrs Boyle nods.