I glanced round the single room and asked, “Your husband’s cousin lives here with you?”

“No, she has her own room at the school and does board there, but every Monday is her own, so she comes here to visit then.”

It sounded like a lonely life for Lily. I think Helen must have thought so, too, for she asked, “And have you searched out many of your friends, from when you used to live here?”

Lily, by my reckoning, was only one and thirty—not much older by her years than Helen. But her life had made her older by experience, and it showed in her eyes now when she looked across the table. “Time makes changes, Mrs. Turnbull. We are none of us the people we once were.”

I knew the truth of that. I said, “My mother used to tell me that you can’t take a step forwards if you’re holding to the past.”

Lily told me, “Your mother was wise.”

“Aye, she was.” I missed my mother every day, and knew I had been fortunate to have her, but like many men I did not put those feelings into words. I only coughed and said to Helen, “Do you see? I stand as proof how great the bond can be between a mother and a son.”

“You have convinced me,” Helen said. “I shall have only sons.” She tipped her head a little as though listening. “This is a quiet house. Are there no other tenants?”

Lily shook her head. “The candlemakers who do keep the shop live elsewhere, and the floor below me is the private lodging of my landlords, who make use of it but rarely when they are in town. They have not come of late, and may not come again. The husband died in August, and ’tis only by the kindness of his widow that I am allowed to stay here while the family settles the estate.”

I did not like to think of her alone here and unguarded in the night. It left her vulnerable. Nor did I like to know that she might soon be forced to find another place to live. I tried to push both thoughts aside so they would not be a distraction. Taking up my pen and ink, I asked, “Where is the school at which your husband’s cousin teaches?”

Lily’s frown was slight. “Why? She was a child when I was married. Even if she had a memory of that time, which I do doubt, her testimony cannot be of use.”

“I don’t expect we’ll need to speak to her,” I said, “but Gilroy did ask me to learn where she had gone. He likes his notes to be complete.”

“I see.” She gave the address of the school. “But I would thank you not to interview her there. The school does pride itself on having several students from fine families of the first quality, and any teacher who desires to stay there must then guard her reputation.”