Alasdair took the stairs, his footsteps deadened by the gradually unravelling crimson Turkish carpet that must have looked impressive in an English drawing room in 1880 but here was merely oppressive. He had used the elevator just the once and its clanking and rattling had made such a terrific noise he had expected every moment that doors would fly open and every pair of eyes would gaze upon him, though none had. Since then he had used the stairs. And he rarely saw anyone. The residents—widows existing on small annuities, retired military men who had never married, men of business whose investments had not performed quite as well as hoped—had few callers. When he had happened to meet someone—an elderly lady in pince-nez; a young woman in a great hurry—they had been as speechless as he. He had tipped his hat and continued on his way. If asked he would say he was Miss Trent’s brother, her business adviser, her lawyer. Not her uncle, not that. But no one had ever asked.

On the first floor a large fern in a cracked terracotta pot and one or two badly executed watercolours on the walls provided the only relief from an otherwise empty corridor and more anonymous doors. Alasdair walked the length of the corridor and paused outside the last door at the rear of the house.

He had chosen this apartment. He paid the rent on it. But he paused. After a moment he tapped on the door.

The road ahead was blocked. A line of drays, carts and carriages queued the length of Victoria Road all the way back to the junction with Darlinghurst Road.

What had caused the blockage was not immediately apparent, but as Eleanor leaned out of the window of her cab she saw a dray on its side minus a wheel and a terrified plunging mare that several excited young men were now attempting to calm and others to cut free from its harness. She looked down. The road was slick with a sticky brown liquid that flowed steadily down the centre of the road and into the gutters. By its odour it had clearly come straight from the brewery via the pile of spilled and split barrels that now lay scattered across the street. Already small boys and one or two of the more disreputable local inhabitants had run onto the street with caps and cups and their bare hands and were scooping up the amber liquid and pouring it down their throats. A great many men were shouting and gesticulating and a great many more were standing around, pushing their caps to the back of their heads and thoroughly enjoying the spectacle.

‘Driver! Get us out of this!’ Eleanor called up.

‘Ain’t goan nowhere,’ replied the man, not even bothering to look down at her. He spat a mouthful of tobacco from the side of his mouth into the quagmire of ale below.