‘No more policemen will be coming here, will they?’ Mamma continues to fret. ‘Agnes, I don’t think I could bear to see a policeman after—’

‘No, no.’

She blesses her lucky stars that Mamma was in bed asleep when she and Simon arrived back from the gardens and the discovery of Ned’s body. Quite how she managed to doze through the ruckus of Simon’s argument with Redmayne is a mystery, but Agnes is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Mamma’s breath saws.

‘Try to be calm, Mamma. This is why I did not tell you. It was a trifle, and I knew you would get upset. Sit there. I will fetch you some tea.’

She walks out of the heat into the coolness of the kitchen. A plague on those reporters, and the policemen too. As if she did not have enough trouble without them.

Locating the key, she unlocks the caddy. There is no tea.

Agnes slides down against the cupboard and sits on the floor.

It will not do. She cannot endure this any longer. Simon’s promised help is not forthcoming: she must take matters into her own hands and rescue her silhouette parlour.

But she can think of only one course of action.

Naturally, the event must take place in the evening; wicked deeds require the cover of darkness. The abbey bells toll seven as Agnes slinks out of the front door and locks it behind her.

She shivers from cold and fear. It is not exactly late, but at this time of year, seven o’clock might as well be the middle of the night.

Her senses sharpen. People she would scarcely notice crossing the churchyard by day now carry an air of menace. Do they regard her with disapproval? A lone woman out at this hour is unlikely to be virtuous, and Agnes feels that she is not: she is about to do something repugnant to her feelings and decency alike.

Twice, she nearly turns back. What is it that makes Bath so eerie when the sun goes down? It could be the mounds of snow, pale as flesh against the black sky, or it might be the buildings that tower over her, conspiratorial and worn. More likely it is the frightened whispers of her own conscience.

But what else can she do?

She listens to her heartbeat and her footsteps. Both strike too rapidly. The pointed spire of St Michael’s looms up, making her feel helplessly small.

She tries to remind herself that this anxiety is simply a sign of her own weakness, not an indication that she is making an error. Attending a séance is the only way to obtain answers: the definitive identity of the drowned sailor, and the name and motive of the person who is killing her clients. The knowledge of the dead is useful beyond measure: that is why it is forbidden.