Eventually, I left the fire and began to explore, and as I trailed along corridors and peeped into rooms, I became more aware of the burgeoning decay – velvet curtains with patches worn thin, scuffed furniture and a smell of damp. I wondered how long those spaces had lain neglected. Below the panelling, there was dust where the oak had been bored by worm. On the upper floor, I came across another maid clearing out my grate. She blushed when she saw me, rising from her knees in an awkward curtsey. She had the darker, weathered skin and hair of the islanders.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m Miss Swansome, Mary’s new nanny.’

She gave me a smile and bobbed. ‘Magda,’ she said in a pleasing, sing-song voice.

Ahead, darkness swelled in the garret stairwell and curiosity about Hettie made me pause at the bottom and then climb. The banister was worn smooth by the pressure of so many palms. Beyond the sounds of the island, another made itself heard: the faintest of whistles, like wind trapped in tiles or chimneys.

I stopped. Darkness bled into the corners and edged across the walls. As I listened, the whistling rose and fell, and I became aware of the way my hand tightened on the rail.

For no reason that I could fathom, there was a quality to what I heard that turned uneasily inside me.

At the top of the staircase, I opened a door into a largish bedroom, weighted with the sort of heavy furniture found elsewhere in the house. It was shrouded in darkness. I moved across to the window and drew the curtains, spilling light on to surfaces – a bed, a table, two armchairs and an imposing oak press. This must have been where Hettie slept, and I thought I detected the slightest scent of powder or perfume. On the dressing table a yellowed comb with missing teeth and a folded handkerchief sat in a film of dust. I imagined her at the mirror, examining her pretty face with satisfaction. It struck me that, wherever she was now, she did not know that William was dead.

I lifted the comb to the light where strands of red hair were caught in the bone. I reimagined her face and instead of the brown locks, saw auburn, catching the sun like embers. My features met me in the foxed glass and I put a finger to the disappointing shade of my own. There was no sparkle in the grey of my eyes, no blush on my thin cheek.