But here is the nub of it: they were not sorry. Simon was released from a loveless marriage that had led to embarrassment and financial loss. Cedric had always been closer to his aunt, anyhow. The family had been … relieved that Constance had died.

It eats her with shame to think of it now.

And yet death has not altered her sister. She is still enigmatic and infuriating, pushing in front of the other spirits to claim Agnes’s attention. Why? It is next to no use for her to be popping up here, there and everywhere; if she truly wants to contact Agnes, why does she not use words?

She shakes herself. ‘It does not do to dwell upon these tragedies. I must return home now, I have been away too long.’

‘It’s very late. Will it be dangerous out there?’

‘I will wear the greatcoat in the carpet bag. I will pass for a man in the dark.’

Still, Pearl clings on to her hand. ‘You’ll come back?’ she pleads.

Agnes wonders if it is worth the effort. She has learnt no more tonight than she did in the last séance, and that was precious little. Ghosts, it seems, are contrary creatures. Not the oracles she had hoped for but imps, out to tantalise and tease.

No wonder Constance fits in amongst them so well.

‘I did not receive any answers,’ she says, non-committal.

Pearl’s teeth show as she smiles. They are discoloured, darker than her skin. ‘Then you’ve got to come back, haven’t you? We’ll find your killer, and we’ll talk to my mother. I can’t …’ She sweeps an alabaster arm towards the fireplace. ‘I can’t do that alone.’

But Agnes is no longer looking down into the girl’s eager face. A slice of lamplight near the window shows the dust on the floorboards has been disturbed.

‘Are those mouse droppings, Pearl?’

‘Where?’

‘Or did you do that when you …’ She trails off, frowning. Pearl would not have passed across the area when she went to the fireplace, although she was near it.

Slowly, Pearl follows her gaze. Gasps.

‘What is it, Pearl?’

‘I …’ She finally lets go of Agnes and steps closer. ‘I can’t read, but they look like some kind of letters?’

Dread is a leaden ball behind Agnes’s ribs. She wanted words, and now she has them. She ought to be more careful with her wishes.

She slinks up to the child, peers over her shoulder. It’s the same writing. The very same as on the notes pushed under her door and hidden in Cedric’s pocket, only this time a finger has traced the words in the dust.

‘What does it say?’ Pearl urges.

Agnes blinks. She would give worlds to believe that her cataracts have deceived her, and she read the wrong message.

But it is still there, defiant in the dust.

‘Ma’am? What does it say?’