She stood quite still, listening but hearing only the steady tick of a clock whose whereabouts she could not identify. And because there was this almost-silence it was the smells that she noticed: old timber and crumbling plaster and ageing rugs that had not been properly beaten in a while. It was a smell of not-quite-dry laundry and furniture polish and, faintly, of mothballs and cheap soap. Smells familiar and yet here, in this place, utterly alien. She reached out a hand. At her side was a narrow console table on which lay a worked brass tray, a repository for keys or letters, though it held nothing now, and beside it a cut-glass vase, though it too showed no evidence of having been recently used. The hallway was little more than an alcove and before her the apartment opened up into a generous room. She took in the crowd of mismatching tables and chairs, some of them quite good, others cheap and worthless, so that one got the impression an assortment of relatives, of varying means and tastes, had all died at once, leaving the apartment’s occupant the contents of their homes. On the walls, perhaps in an attempt to minimise the effect of the oppressive crimson wallpaper, were a collection of reproduction Landseer horses and stags and pre-Raphaelite women in various states of religious ecstasy. But there was nothing here of a personal nature. This furniture must surely predate Miss Trent by thirty or more years.

Eleanor turned about and saw a large fireplace set in the back wall, its hearth hidden behind an ornately worked iron fireguard, beside it an ash bucket and a collection of pokers and paper spills, and on the mantel two empty brass candlesticks and the clock, a small gold carriage clock, the source of the loud ticking. She walked over to the hearth but it was swept clean or had not been used for some time. Still nothing.

Where was Miss Trent in this room? She picked up the carriage clock, which looked to be of good quality though utterly unsuited to fill the space on the mantel, which wanted a much larger timepiece than this little thing. She turned it over and saw an engraving: To my little Verity with all my love—your dearest Papa, 1876.

And here at last was Miss Trent. But Verity, and not Victoria at all. This required a rethink. Eleanor had pictured the parents quite distinctly but now they became vague and insubstantial. Verity. It was rather a cheap name, a music hall name. And yet this clock was charming.