I was conscious immediately of the isolation, the chillier atmosphere. The dirty windows gave no moonlight and I tried not to imagine ghosts. Swinging the lantern, I saw the piles of furniture and fabrics – a cracked washstand and basin. I examined everything but there was nothing to hint at undiscovered secrets. Finally, I was left only with a pile of trunks.

For a heartbeat, I regarded their bulk and thought about leaving. But I recalled the fury of Hettie’s eyes in the dream and I took them down, unclasped their rusty latches and disgorged the contents. Most were empty but for dust and beetles and I felt the beginnings of failure.

Soon my knees ached from the pressure of the boards and sweat flowered on my brow. I began to believe the task was fruitless.

Only one case remained and I opened the lid wearily. Unlike the others, this was not empty, but full of clothes – a mismatch of faded frocks and darned stockings, underskirts and grubby corsets. The sour, nettle-smell of stale sweat still clung to the fabric. I was discarding a blouse when something about it snagged my attention. It had a round lace collar and then I discerned it, so faintly and so overladen with other scents that it was barely recognizable – something flowery. And I knew two things: that I had seen a blouse like this in the photograph of Hettie, and the aroma in the air was hers.

I emptied more contents – underclothes, aprons, a comb set and handkerchiefs.

Holding the lantern closer I examined the collar of a dress and found a label stitched there, went to another and another; all bore her name – these items belonged to Hettie. Why would she have abandoned them? Even if she had gone in haste, would she leave so much, and why was her case hidden?

I studied the trunk itself and found another compartment containing a heavy purse. I freed the clasp and there inked over the grimy fabric was her name. It was weighty with coins. Too weighty. And my heart began to slam against my chest. Hettie had not been rich; this must surely have been all the money she owned. She would not have discarded this if she had fled voluntarily.

Finally, my fingers touched upon a cloth bag with a jumble of knitting. Taking the items from the compartment, I hurried to repack the case and returned the trunks to the order in which I had found them. And all the while a sick sort of knowledge grew belly upwards.

Finally, I paused in shock. It was clear. There could be no mistake. Hettie had never caught the boat to America.