Alasdair raised his chin and stared the man down. There was enough truth in this drawn-out explanation to allow a glow of self-congratulation at the compassion, the benevolence of his actions. If his actions had very soon gone beyond benevolence, well, that was no one’s business but his own.

The ageing Mr Gregson remained impassive, unmoved by this speech, other than to remark, ‘Am I to understand you are a member of parliament, sir?’

Alasdair inclined his head.

The old fellow appeared to consider and then to make up his mind. ‘Very well then. Miss Trent, I am sorry to say, appears to have found herself in a certain condition.’ He looked directly at Alasdair as a man did who wished his meaning to convey more than his words could.

And they did convey meaning.

Alasdair reeled. ‘She is with child?’

Alice found her mistress seated at her writing desk, though there was no paper before her on the desk and no pen in her hand. Mrs Dunlevy sat very upright, looking towards the window. A branch of the big tree outside tapped softly against the glass and for a moment they both observed it.

‘Alice,’ said Mrs Dunlevy, ‘you went out last night and you took something with you, something from the house, and you returned very late. Can you explain what you were doing and what it was that you took?’

The branch tapped again, softly, the merest brush of leaves against glass, but insistently, as though its destiny was to overrun the house and return this place to its original state, if not today or next year, then eventually. What was stone and brick and glass compared to God’s own work, compared to a tree?

Alice felt a coldness spread through her body. ‘I did go out, madam, yes.’

Though how Mrs Dunlevy could know of it when Alice had gone out after her and returned to the house before her, she did not know. And even as she wondered this a curtain twitched in the upstairs window of the house opposite and the elderly lady who lived there, who never left her house, who sat hour upon empty hour at this very window, appeared briefly—triumphantly!—and was gone.

‘I am very sorry I did not ask before I went, madam, but I was desperate.’

Mrs Dunlevy turned very slowly to face her, and lifted her eyebrow enquiringly. ‘Desperate?’

‘Yes, madam. What I mean is I had forgot some of the laundry, and so when the girl came to take it away some got left behind. I realised it and I bundled it up and I went out, late, after you and Mr Dunlevy had gone out for the evening, and I took it there myself. I know I should have told you, madam, but I had made a mistake and I did not wish it known.’