‘And – and your father? You said you had two people to care for. He was in the army … He is wounded from a battle, I daresay.’

Miss West’s pretty lips set. ‘The man in there ain’t my father.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ The harsh London accent returns. ‘My dad bit it when I was seven. Cannon fodder. I pleaded with Mother not to marry again, but what could she do? There was no one to help us. Neither hide nor hair of my uncle. And you see how it’s worked out for me. She’s popped off and I’m stuck caring for everyone.’

Agnes pulls a wry expression. She knows exactly how that feels.

‘And what afflicts the poor man?’

Miss West puffs out her breath. ‘Matches.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He got us into matches. The hours I spent, miss, in that stinking factory, dipping the lucifers. They’re right, you know, to name them after Old Nick.’ Her hands gain animation once again. ‘That work don’t do you no good. All them fumes, they eat away at you. He got sick. And of course they don’t care, do they, factory owners? Just paid him off. They said they’d keep me on there if I wanted, but would you fancy it, after seeing the work take his face away like that?’

‘Oh. I think I may have heard of this malady. The corrosive effects of the phosphorus … Phossy jaw, do they call it?’

‘They can call it what they like,’ she scoffs. ‘It’s me what has to deal with it. I brought him all the way here to Bath because a doctor said the waters would cure him, but that’s a cock and bull story, ain’t it? Bloody doctors. They didn’t help my mother and they can’t help him.’

Poor Simon. For all his authority, she doubts he would fare well, pitted against this young woman.

Miss West seems to catch herself. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t need to hear all that. I don’t usually lose my temper, but it’s been a trying week. That body and all …’

‘I quite understand.’

‘Like I said, my uncle was a sailor too, and he left us. Thinking of them always makes me angry.’

Agnes feels ashamed of how silly she has been. Neither the waterlogged corpse nor the river are here; they cannot touch her. And Miss West is not a wicked heretic, only a frustrated and poorly educated girl.

She drains her glass and, for want of a side table, places it on the carpet. The fibres are unpleasantly stiff and coarse, like sackcloth. ‘Thank you so much for your kindness, Miss West.’ Slowly, she sits up. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you. Please accept my best wishes for your family’s return to health.’