Agnes lets herself fall full-length upon the sofa. Only now does she realise how cold she is, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She should change out of these wretched, damp clothes, but she has no energy. Every part of her feels heavy.

By and by, Simon’s hand lightly touches the back of her head. ‘Forgive me, Miss Darken. I told that blasted fellow all this would make you ill again. Not that he heeded me. These newfangled police give false consequence to upstarts like him.’

‘I would forgive his impertinence if he had not brought me such dreadful news.’ She coughs. ‘Poor Mr Boyle! My first customer in months!’

‘Hush, now. Hush. You lie there. I will fix you something to drink.’

‘Where is Cedric? Mamma? She must not hear of this—’

‘No.’ He pauses. ‘All is … quiet upstairs.’

‘Thank you, Simon.’

Exhausted, Agnes closes her eyes, but the lack of vision only heightens her aches and her pains. That burning in her chest. A drum pounding, deep in the sockets of her eyes. The sight of that policeman has brought the Accident back with a clarity she would not have supposed possible, after all these years.

The house stretches and pops. She sinks her face into a cushion, ignoring its demands.

When she returns to herself, there is a shawl draped over her. Flames caper in the fireplace. On the side table, a fresh cup of tea steams beside a slice of cake.

Simon sits watching her. He has removed his coat and rolled his shirtsleeves up his broad arms. His right hand nurses a glass containing a whisky-coloured liquid. Opiates, possibly.

‘Tea first,’ he instructs. ‘Then a dose of this to help you sleep.’

Dear Simon. He has waited upon her like a hired hand – and she cannot even afford to pay him for the medicine.

‘How is Mamma? Cedric will be expecting his supper, we always try to eat that together and read a story …’

Simon takes a deep breath. ‘They are asleep.’

No light shines through the paper silhouettes tacked to the window panes; their shapes blend into the black of the night outside. It is far later than she had reckoned.

‘I have kept you too long, Simon. You have better things to do. Other patients … and who will have fed your little dog?’

A thin smile. ‘Morpheus will manage well enough without me. Come, drink your tea. I want to see you settled before I take my leave.’

Obediently, she reaches for the cup. The liquid is too hot, but she forces it down.

‘Simon, if news of this murder gets out … and no doubt it will …’ She takes another gulp. ‘I worry it might lend a certain notoriety to my business.’

‘There will be time enough to discuss that later.’