No footsteps sound behind the door, but it is opened instantly by a striking young woman, comely and golden-haired, perhaps twenty years of age. She stares at Agnes, all piquant features and bright, questing eyes.

‘Yes?’

A London accent.

Agnes feels absurd, and very, very old. ‘I … Good morning. Forgive me for disturbing you. I daresay this is going to seem a trifle odd, but … Are you – by chance – the Miss West who found the drowned man?’

An eyebrow arches, its shape unnervingly reflected in Miss West’s widow’s peak. ‘Knocked on this door by chance, did you?’

‘N-no,’ Agnes stutters, face aflame. ‘Of course I discovered Miss West lived here, but I did not like to assume that you … She might not be the only resident.’

Miss West stares at her.

‘Pardon me for interrupting you,’ Agnes repeats. ‘It is only that … They do not seem to have identified the body yet. I am anxious for a friend of mine and I wondered if I might … ask you a few brief questions about what you found?’

‘Why don’t you just go to the mortuary chapel? Have a look at him?’

The mere concept sends Agnes dizzy. ‘I cannot do that.’

Miss West sucks her teeth, looks Agnes up and down. ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in, then.’

The light is strangely muted inside, not unlike Mrs Boyle’s house of mourning. Agnes has a dim impression of a thinning carpet and cracks in the ceiling. What strikes her most is the odour: sulphur and rot.

There is no obvious sign of its origin. The parlour Miss West leads her to is clean, if rather worn. Faded lilac paper peels at the edges of the walls. A black walnut cabinet skulks beside the fireplace. There are several chairs grouped together in dark communion, a sofa and a circular table covered in cheap red plush. Rather than flowers, the table has a glass globe as the centrepiece. Agnes has never seen anything like it.

Miss West seats herself upon the sofa and flicks her eyes towards one of the chairs.

Agnes takes it. ‘Thank you.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Miss West warns. ‘I’ve a sick man and child to look after.’

‘We are alike, then.’ Agnes jumps upon the common ground, grinning rather foolishly. ‘Since my sister passed, I have been caring for my nephew and aged mother. It can be a trial to—’

‘You said you’ve got questions.’

She was going to begin with a preamble, apologise for dredging up unpleasant scenes, but it seems Miss West was born without a sense of delicacy. She imagines this bold young woman touching Montague’s drowned body and her stomach turns over. ‘Yes. I-I wondered if you happened to see, from the coat of this naval man you found, whether he was an officer? And of which rank?’