‘It was trapped on rocks out at Gannet Point.’ The fishermen stood around in shuffling awkwardness. Then the smell hit us and I recoiled.

‘Dear Lord,’ Miss Gillies said. ‘What in heaven’s name is it?’

Mary’s grip tightened on mine.

Nobody said anything. In the quiet, the sea rushed at the shore and a blast of wind tugged at the package. My eyes found a split in the fabric and something beyond, something white and curled like fingers of coral. Not coral, fingers of bone. I whipped round and saw from the shock on her face that Mrs Lenister had seen it too.

Robert Argylle came forward holding a scarf to his nose. ‘Where did you find it? What is it?’ But it was clear that he, like everyone else who now stood around, knew that the thing upon the beach was a body.

‘It looks like a sea burial. The body must have come loose from its weights and drifted in the storm,’ the fisherman said.

Argylle looked around at the pale, gawping faces as if assessing his congregation for absentees. ‘A passenger on one of the bigger steamships?’ he asked.

‘That would be my guess.’

The mutter of talk began rising up to fill the hush, and I was aware of Mary beside me and turned to her. Her eyes were too big, too troubled, and snatched a heartbeat of horror from me. I moved a little away and pressed her face to my coat. ‘Don’t look.’

Another fierce gust caught the bundle and loosed a flank of hair that lay twisted in the sand like the wetted tail of a fox. I knew its colour.

Before they could be stopped, two black-backed gulls swooped in and tugged at the sailcloth, and the binding gaped. A piece of material was revealed. The colour was indeterminate, but there, glinting in the weak sun, was a brooch, large and oval, the gold casing dulled by age. My eyes sought Bridget Argylle. Had she seen it too, the cameo piece that had been so precious to its owner? My gaze found her, a little way up the path, a hand to her mouth. Mary’s fingers gripped mine but I was barely aware. Surely not, I told myself, but I knew it was true. I knew who it was who lay there in her wrap of wet fabric. I knew that she was bones already, that whenever death had taken her it was long before I had imagined her in some city elsewhere, her palm in the grasp of another innocent child.

Silence fell and the fishermen’s eyes slid to Miss Gillies. They too had guessed.

Mrs Lenister flicked me a glance with something like fear.

‘We think …’ The fisherman exchanged uncomfortable looks with his fellows, ‘We think it might be yon nanny.’

‘Hettie?’ Miss Gillies’ voice was tight with distress.