‘I … needed some air,’ she explains. ‘I turned back as soon as it started to rain.’ She sounds guilty, like a child caught.

‘Miss Darken, I’m Sergeant Redmayne.’ The policeman possesses a granite slab of a face, unmarked by any trace of a smile. He tips his head forward and water cascades from his hat, wetting her feet.

Agnes represses a sigh. Manners seem to be declining faster than the city itself. ‘And how may I help you, Sergeant?’

‘It’s a tad delicate, miss. Might I come inside?’

Simon clears his throat and fidgets with his collar. No doubt he is thinking the same as Agnes: that the sight of a policeman might set Mamma off on another of her strange turns.

The sergeant’s eyes sharpen at their hesitation.

‘If you must,’ she says begrudgingly. ‘Please excuse the mess. I have been working this morning. I did not expect …’ she gestures at him, ‘you.’

Fishing in her reticule, she produces a set of keys and clunks one awkwardly into the lock. She hopes the sergeant does not notice the tarnished brass of the letterbox, or the magpie droppings plastered on the door panels. Perhaps it is just as well he is not a customer, after all.

Agnes leads them in. No call answers the sound of her footsteps, or the slam of the door behind Simon, who enters last. Cautiously, she peers into the parlour – a small chamber dominated by the fireplace and an old, oaken grandfather clock that wheezes as it ticks. Captain Darken maintained vehemently, until his dying day, that the clock was made with wood from HMS Victory, but Agnes entertains her doubts.

A teacup remains on the side table where she left it, the dregs leaching into the white bone china. Nothing but ash lies in the throat of the fireplace.

Thankfully, Mamma is nowhere to be seen.

‘Here you are.’ She ushers the visitors in, ashamed of the dust and the paintbrushes dotted about the room. Even the profiles framed on the wall seem to avert their faces, refusing to look upon her clutter. ‘Will this take long? Shall I boil water for tea?’

‘That won’t be necessary, Miss Darken.’ Sergeant Redmayne sits heavily in the wing chair.

Agnes would rather change her clothes, stoke up the fire and take some refreshment before he relates whatever he has to tell, but the sergeant’s manner is so grave, so dampening, she can do nothing but take a seat and remove her bonnet, waiting dumbly for his words.

‘I called earlier, but you were out. Instead I met your physician, here.’ He throws Simon a look that would fell a slighter man. ‘Strange enough, he turned up again, just as I came back for a second try.’

‘Fortuitous.’ Simon smiles, but Agnes senses he is not altogether easy. He has not yet sat down.