Tentatively, she leans forward and touches the ivory hand. It is cold as marble. An acrid smell breathes from the skin, a sort of tang that reminds her of the charnel house. She wrinkles her nose.

‘Spirit smells.’ Miss West brushes down her gown repeatedly, although nothing marks it. ‘That … that happens.’

Agnes watches, tensed, expecting the girl to snap up again any minute, possessed by another spirit. But she seems to be in a deep swoon. Miss West places cushions behind her, covers her with a blanket and wipes the disarrayed hair from her forehead. The young woman’s mouth is set in a hard pout Agnes cannot interpret.

She completes a nervous survey of the room, wondering if ghosts are lurking in the dark corners. The few cheap prints hanging on the wall are all aslant and the table itself seems to have moved a full six inches to the left.

It is horrendous and evil, even worse than Cedric’s books, and yet it is undeniably true: the dead walk. They have burst from the tomb.

She wants to laugh and to cry.

Here is all she sought: the drowned man’s name – not Montague! – and a chance to speak with poor Ned. She has confirmation from his icy lips of what she knew from the start: that the murderer is hounding her, trying to send her a message through her clients.

But that knowledge is no relief.

‘The séance is over,’ Miss West says. ‘She needs her rest now.’

Agnes’s legs have turned to water. With great difficulty she rises from the chair and fishes in her reticule for the coins, all she has left from Ned’s commission. Miss West snatches them.

This séance, she senses, was not like the others. The young woman is twitchy, on edge, as she leads her into the hallway and towards the front door.

Agnes hesitates. ‘If … I wanted to come back …’

‘Back?’ Miss West repeats, her eyes wide and tinctured with loathing.

‘To … hear the rest of the message.’

Miss West shakes her head. ‘It won’t be cheap. Cost you one and six.’

Even after the horror of the evening, a laugh escapes her. ‘A shilling and sixpence? Do you know how long it would take me to earn—’

‘I don’t care! Didn’t you see the state of her? She’ll be like that for days now and we won’t make a penny. You’re no good for us. I should never have asked you here.’

Miss West has dropped her act so completely that she is practically trying to push Agnes out through the door.

Perhaps it is a business tactic. Agnes doubts it, though. Reluctantly, she steps out onto the cold street. If she leaves now, she will be in a sorrier condition than the one she arrived in: knowing that she really is a target, but not what the killer wants from her.