He must have been there since the early hours of the morning, at least. Maybe days. She cannot remember when it first started snowing. Someone must have dug in the drift to bury him, knowing that any later snowfall would further conceal their sin. Out there, on the edges of the park, he would not have been discovered until the thaw, were it not for one busy little dog.

The abbey bells toll.

Part of her is glad they found him. His poor remains did not deserve to lie alone in an icy grave for any longer. But she wishes she had not seen the face. How it had changed. The eyelashes and brows flared shockingly white. His hair had clumped into one semi-transparent shape, like wax that had melted and set. Patches of the skin showed black. Scorched by fire, she thought, until she realised: the cold can burn, too.

The floorboards creak. Simon’s voice rumbles downstairs. ‘I can answer for Miss Darken. Neither of us has seen the unfortunate gentleman before in our lives. Did he have nothing about his person to suggest his identity?’

‘We’ve a lad reported missing. The family are on their way to view the body.’

‘Well, then. We can hardly be of further assistance.’

‘But if we could talk to Miss Darken herself—’

‘Absolutely not. I made it clear to you that the lady is unwell.’

‘It’s a murder inquiry, sir. Can’t stand upon niceties.’

Simon fumes: ‘So you would have another death upon your hands, would you? I am telling you that as her physician, I advise against it. She very nearly died in ’52. Can you not wait a few days until she is recovered?’

‘We’d prefer to—’

‘I see I will have to speak to your superior. But let me make this plain now: if you continue to harass my sister-in-law, I will not be answerable for the consequences to her health.’

Agnes’s hand grips the bed sheet. Simon is exaggerating, but she really does feel ill. The walking, the cold and the shock have overwhelmed her. If Sergeant Redmayne appeared in her room, she thinks her heart would stop.

There is more movement downstairs. Cedric leaps up from his position beside Morpheus on the landing floor and scurries back inside his own chamber.

She hears some last, muffled words and the slam of the front door. The stairs groan. Morpheus’s tail begins to thump as Simon makes his way up, a mug in hand.

He enters the bedchamber with eyes respectfully averted. Sweat beads his brow. She detects its slight tang beneath his usual scent of carbolic soap as he approaches the bed and offers the cup.

‘Drink this. It is not laudanum, I promise, just hot flip. It will help you sleep, without the dreams.’