His consulting room is on the lower floor, in concession to his less perambulatory patients. Agnes makes her own way there, collecting Morpheus as she goes. Simon’s previous dogs would not walk confidently beside her skirts inside the house, but cringe in anticipation of a kick. The pitiful things did not have wit enough to distinguish one Darken sister from the other; all they heard in the rustle of a gown was danger.

She taps on the door in case a patient is within, but Morpheus headbutts it open before Simon can respond.

The consulting room is papered in a damask the colour of potatoes and beef. Walnut furniture houses inkwells, empty glass domes, a magnifying glass and piles of paper tied neatly with string. Beside a row of leather-bound books, a chipped phrenology bust gazes impassively down at them.

Simon’s desk is lit by a brass lamp with a tall, glass chimney. He sits behind it, reading a newspaper, but her entrance raises him to his feet.

‘Miss Darken! I did not expect you. Have you been walking in all this damp?’

He pulls out a chair for her and rings the bell for tea. Her prepared speech thickens on her tongue; it is not possible to be eloquent while he fusses about her. ‘Simon – I must … I had to …’

‘I suppose you have already seen,’ he cuts in, as Morpheus settles down by her feet. He gestures at the newspaper. ‘It has been a busy morning and I only just read it myself.’

She stiffens. ‘Not another death?’

‘No. Did you not hear? They have identified the man.’

‘The killer?’

He shakes his head. ‘Oh, no. The man who … drowned. The one you asked me about.’

She had almost forgotten. Looking back, her former worries seem insignificant.

Noting her silence, Simon speaks gently. ‘It was not … Lieutenant Montague.’

‘No.’ She shudders, remembering the Sylph’s frantic gasps. ‘His name was Hargreaves.’

‘So you have read it?’

The charwoman interrupts them, thumping inside with two cups of a questionable-looking beverage. Chagrined, Simon stops leaning over Agnes’s chair and returns to his own seat.

‘I put sugar in it, Doctor,’ the woman informs her employer as she sets the cup down on his desk. ‘Thought you might need it after this morning.’

‘What happened this morning?’ Agnes asks.

Simon waves the question away with a pained expression, but his charwoman is only too keen to elaborate. ‘Suicide, weren’t it, Doctor? Is that what you found?’

‘Indeed, the contents of the stomach lining would seem to suggest it was not accidental. Now, please, Miss Darken is—’

‘So he ate them? A whole box of matches?’

‘It would appear so. That will be all, thank you, Mrs Muckle.’

Still she hovers. ‘I’ll be off home for the day, then?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

The charwoman raises her eyebrows at Agnes, as if she has revealed a great wonder to her, and makes her exit.