Of course, she needed to keep herself in check and act reasonably, so they would take her seriously and not question her story. She thought for a moment: was it better to give her real name or a false one?

“Cotton, my name is Alice Cotton.”

“And your mother’s name?” The constable glanced at her again, eyes lingering on her messy clothes as she took too long thinking what to say. She couldn’t say Ruth Cotton because then he’d realize she wasn’t married, but she couldn’t lie about that and the father too.

“Ruth Cotton.”

He frowned, then put the pen down and leaned closer. “So, what makes you think your mother would take your baby?”

“Because she . . . we no longer have anyone to support us. She’s scared. But it’s illegal, isn’t it? I mean, she can’t do it?”

“I don’t know about illegal, though it’s certainly unusual. I haven’t had to deal with anything like this before.”

“You can help me, then?”

“How old is the baby, madam?”

“Four days,” Alice replied, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Just the thought of her newborn made her breasts tingle as the let-down reflex released some milk, and she glanced down to check her coat still covered her.

“Any distinguishing features?” he asked as he started to make notes.

She’d barely had the chance to look at Eadie’s tiny body; all she could think of was a small birthmark on her left shoulder.

He looked up. “Any distinguishing features?” he repeated, still sounding patient.

“A small birthmark on her shoulder. Barely the size of a pea.”

“And the father’s name?”

“I told you, he’s no longer with us,” Alice said sharply.

“But I still need to know his name. Presumably you have the birth certificate?”

It was no good, she couldn’t give Rupert’s name; if they contacted his family, she stood to lose Eadie anyway. And if she gave a false name, there was a good chance the police would find out she’d lied, and then they might refuse to help her.

“No. No, I don’t.”

“I see,” he said as he stopped writing and looked up at her again. His brow furrowed. “Are you sure about any of this, Mrs. Cotton? Are you unwell, or perhaps you’re just confused? Or maybe you’ve done something with your baby—left her somewhere, or done something you regret, and now you’re trying to blame somebody else?”

“No, that’s not true. I told you, my mother’s taken her. Here . . . I’ve got a note.” She pulled the crumpled paper from her bag and handed it over to the sergeant.

“Look, I’m sorry, but you could have written this yourself. Can anyone corroborate your story?”

“Yes, the doctor . . . he can, and my aunt, Hope. She’ll tell you what happened.”

“What’s this doctor’s name?”