Agnes shuffles into a sitting position and takes it from him. His manner is odd, and she senses it is not just because he is inside her bedroom. She feels as if she has misbehaved, disappointed him in some way. ‘I forgot to ask after Mrs Oswald.’

‘Hmm?’

‘The lady who fell.’

‘Oh, she will recover. Merely a sprained ankle. Her child is unharmed.’

Agnes takes a sip of her drink, wincing at how alcoholic it is. ‘Small mercies.’

He remains silent. Concentrating, although she does not know on what.

While she drinks, her eyes shy away from Simon to survey the room. It is in a bad state. She needs to dust the dressing table and pull the hair out of her brush. Some pencils have found their way in here, and the silhouette of Constance …

She frowns.

The shade that fell from the broken frame is propped up, beside her mirror. She could have sworn she put it away in her book.

‘I imagine the police will return,’ Simon sighs. ‘Especially if no one identifies the body.’

‘Ned,’ she whispers. ‘His name was Ned.’

Now the moustache shading his upper lip will never grow. She remembers his self-effacing smile, even his pomade, and it is impossible to reconcile them with the thing they pulled from the snow. But Agnes was not mistaken. The body was certainly his.

‘Why would you not let me tell them I had met him and knew his name, Simon?’

He bridles. ‘You ask me why? What of the business you were so worried about at teatime? Do you think this news will help matters?’

He has rarely been this short with her before. A tear slips down her cheek as she takes another mouthful of drink. ‘I just … I worry they will find out he was a client here anyway.’

Simon shakes his head. ‘You said it was a drop-in appointment, unrecorded—’

‘Unless he already gave the shade to his grandmother?’

‘I doubt that is the case.’

She takes a shuddering breath. ‘It was … some of my best work, Simon. I was so proud of it. And now …’

He places a hand on her shoulder and lets her cry.

‘You must believe me now,’ she sniffs. ‘You must see.’

‘See?’

‘Three people, Simon. Three people have died after sitting for my art.’

Simon appears at a loss for words. He brings his watch out of his waistcoat pocket, puts it back again.

‘It is … true that three gentlemen have died,’ he reasons. ‘But I believe it was a mere coincidence that you happened to cut their profiles. Consider. How would this murderer have known about you? What motive would he have to interfere with your livelihood?’

She looks at her hands, swollen and arthritic around the cup. ‘I cannot explain it, Simon. I feel somehow responsible. As if my gaze has cast a shadow over them.’