Time was pressing; the cold would surely keep the service short. I sighed and because my feet were growing numb took one more circle of the room. It was as I made my way past the window that I was aware of the way the floorboard creaked differently beneath my foot. Unlike the others, this was not nailed. I rolled up the rug, saw the faulty joints and pressed my thumbs to a corner. It lifted.

Something inside me thrilled but was repelled when I realized that amongst the dust and cobwebs lay William’s secret collection. I held my breath, half-dreading, half-fascinated by what it might contain. Laying the objects out removed any last trace of doubt. Why else would a boy have need for such things: the skull of a bird, bone pale and beak sharp, a knife, curved and thin with a silver handle? I did not want to pick it up; in the weak light it was clear that the blade was rusted with blood. These artefacts told me William’s story more vividly than words had done.

Amongst the belongings was a leather pouch. I tipped the contents on to the boards. Repugnance rattled in my chest. I knew immediately what it was – what it might have been had he finished it – a widows’ whistle. As Ailsa had described, the bone was roughly hewn and beside it a membrane of dried skin from some wretched creature. He had planned to make another. My knowledge of biology was too thin to confirm or deny whether the bone was human, but I was shaken more deeply than I could have anticipated.

My knees were unsteady as I walked blindly to the window and rested my palms on the sill. Against my will, I was revisited by the sound of feet at Gulls Cry. I gripped harder. No, I told myself, just because he believed or Hettie believed, it did not follow that it was true; the whistle could not hold the power it claimed. And if I thought I heard his toy or for an instant glimpsed a reflection, how easily could I have misread it? And as my heart began to beat more calmly, I returned to his store.

There was little left now: candles and finally a collection of stones, stones that were familiar – marked with a figure and bound with hair. It was only as I put them back that I noticed the small box tucked in a corner.

Inside was a doll such as the one I had discovered in Hettie’s room. And as that one had been, this too was without a face. Next to it was a handkerchief stitched with an initial – H. Hettie.