She picked up her coat. ‘One way or another, I have to find my girl, and once I’ve found her, there’s Fanny to be got out of that jail.’ Now that she knew what to do, she felt a whole lot better; if only the task was not so terrifying.

Wishing she hadn’t said anything, Fay tried to dissuade her from leaving. ‘Wait until Harry comes back,’ she pleaded. ‘You can’t go out there all by yourself. There’ll be trouble, you might get hurt, and if you’re right about Fanny being innocent, there’s no telling what you might be getting yourself into.’

Bridget was adamant. ‘If Harry comes back, tell him where I’ve gone. Tell him I can’t rest. I need to be out there.’

Bridget hurried out of the house and went down the street at a run. She hailed a hansom, gave the driver directions, and then climbed in and was on her way.

The ride out to the farm seemed to take for ever, but the driver knew the place and went straight to it.

‘Drop me out here.’ Bridget didn’t want to go too close to the house. She needed to take stock, weigh up what she had to do. Now that she was actually here, she wondered if she had done the right thing after all. But then she reminded herself of her own arguments, how Ruthie might well have tracked Fanny here.

The driver took her coins and dropped them in his pocket. ‘D’yer want me to wait?’

‘No thanks. I’ll find my own way back.’ If she cut across the fields, it would take only half the time.

She watched him go, and then she crept towards the house. ‘Must be a rich bugger,’ she muttered. ‘Happen Fanny chanced along at the right minute. Happen he killed his own wife and paid this witness to throw the blame on Fanny.’

Nothing could have prepared Bridget for what she saw through the drawing-room window. ‘My God! What’s he doing here?’

Bob Morris was standing at a table facing a second man who was meticulously counting out bank-notes. Bob was smiling smugly, hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for the other man to finish counting so he could collect the money and be on his way.

Sick to her stomach, Bridget fell away from the window, hands at her throat as she tried hard not to cry out his name.

After a moment she heard them talking. Creeping to the window once more, she remained hidden, listening to their every word.

‘You did a good job,’ the farmer was saying. ‘Though you didn’t have to make such a bloody mess. I wanted it quick and clean.’ He grinned. ‘Or did you want to have your way with her one last time? God knows it took you long enough to make up your bloody mind.’

Bob Morris stuffed the money in his pocket. ‘Can you blame me? She was a looker, your missus. I didn’t think you’d mind me taking my time. Besides, I reckon I earned a few weeks of fun, before it were all to come to an end.’