By the time she has reached the abbey churchyard, the breath is grating painfully in her lungs. Really, it was foolish to wander as far as Sydney Gardens. Barely two years have passed since pneumonia nearly claimed her life. She had not been strong even before the fever, but when she became lucid again she noticed a profound physical change: her body felt like a stranger’s, unwilling to obey her like it used to.

Take it slowly, Simon counsels her. But it seems, at times, that she has taken her whole life slowly: at the sedate pace of a minuet dance. A spell in the wing chair by the fire, reading Varney the Vampire with her nephew Cedric, will fix her. Illness might have left her frail, but she is not beaten yet.

The rain spits with malice. Mustering all of her energy, she launches herself across the churchyard and round the bulk of the abbey.

Her home cowers in the abbey’s shadow, its walls discoloured by time and soot. Ivy-choked pillars support a portico above the front door. Magpies have taken to nesting here, although there is no sign of them at present. All day long they chitter and cackle, disturbing her work; mocking it, as others do, dismissing it as the vestige of a bygone age.

But to Agnes the black paper shapes in her windows still look as beautiful as ever. The conversation pieces she designed to lure the browsing customer: a group of ladies at tea, horses riding to hounds. Then there are the brighter ovals, painted in Etruscan red; spots of vivid colour on this dreary day.

She is not the only one to view her work with admiration. As she draws closer, she notices two men standing by her parlour window. One consults his pocket watch and then knocks at the front door. From his manner, it appears that he is not knocking for the first time.

Cannot Mamma hear? And where is Cedric – can he really be out playing, in weather like this? Shaking her head, she scurries forward, determined to reach the visitors before they turn away. A fine artist she will look – panting and half-drowned – but she cannot afford to lose even a whiff of business.

It is only as the clouds part, letting slip the tiniest ray of light, that she discerns the man rapping on her door is no usual visitor. Raindrops drip from the portico onto his tall, beaver hat.

The stovepipe hat of a policeman.

‘Miss Darken! You see, Sergeant, I am a man of my word. I told you she would not venture far on a day like today.’

Before Agnes can gather her wits, she recognises Simon’s voice; sees Simon’s watery blue eyes reproaching her beneath the sodden brim of his hat.

Simon and a police officer, waiting on her.