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‘What did she ask you to do?’

‘Just an errand.’ It was Jimmy who answered, winning a glare from his father. ‘What?’ he demanded defensively. ‘I’m not taking the rap for bloody Irma.’

He returned his gaze to Bert, who sighed. ‘She asked us to fetch some oysters, that’s all.’

Tom was never one to be slow off the mark. He nodded, understanding in a heartbeat. ‘And then she let them go off before serving them to Henry?’

Bert shook his head. ‘She only used the juice of the bad oysters and put it on a couple of the good ones, I gather. Look, the fellow was as good as dead,’ he appealed to Tom.

‘Not according to his daughter. Do you know about the arsenic as well?’

Both Coglins nodded, looking worried now. ‘But we had nothing to do with that.’

‘Right. You’re both coming with me to the local cop shop. Tell them what you did, what you know. Or I’ll tell them what Jimmy did to me. One look at his knuckles is all it will take.’ Tom nodded towards Jimmy, who shoved his hands into his pockets.

‘We’re damned either way!’ Bert argued.

Tom nodded. ‘But you can be honest. Contrite.’ He could see them both frowning. ‘If you can show your regret at the part you played, I’m sure you won’t see the inside of the gaol. You were manipulated by a woman with a dark plan and she promised you her business. You didn’t kill him. You were forced to run an errand, believing the reward was part of the business.’

‘That’s the truth of it!’ Bert said.

‘Then tell the truth.’

‘Wait.’ Jimmy frowned. ‘What do you mean, you’re leaving?’

Hell, he was slow. ‘Don’t think on it, Jimmy. You’ve got a full plate to contend with soon. Fleur is yours. I’m stepping aside.’

‘I don’t understand.’

And only then did it occur to Tom that Fleur hadn’t yet told Jimmy about the baby. She must have been weighing up her situation when Tom had obliviously walked back into her life. Was she really that conniving? He would never have thought that of her, but there was no denying how smart she was. It hardened his resolve.

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll work it out, Jimmy,’ Tom said, and smiled, making the scab on his lip crack again. Somehow the blood that subsequently oozed felt appropriate.

Back at the house, Fleur could hear Irma upstairs. The wireless was on. How appalling that she could listen to music and the news of the day, knowing her husband had only died hours ago. Fleur swallowed the bile and didn’t linger, moving straight through to the mortuary where she laid out tiny Alfie. He was beginning to look seriously dehydrated. She would attend to that now and ensure that, should the Wrens wish to bid a final farewell before their child was laid to rest, their son might look as plump and pink as he had looked in life.

Somehow she’d managed to get through that visit with only that single mention of Tom, which she had deflected well enough. Claire had been too preoccupied to ask after him, which was a mercy. Fleur would have to tell her friend soon, but it could wait. By then she hoped to be in far more control of her pain over losing him.

It still made no sense. After returning from collecting Alfie, she had taken delivery of the envelope from the Alberton Hotel. On the front it simply read For Fleur Appleby in small, neat lettering. Inside was cash and a note in the same handwriting that said: Thanks anyway, Fleur, but no need to pay my bills. Yours always, Tom.

Now she was more confused than ever. Those first ten brief words seemed to possess Tom’s reticence, and the final three encapsulated the love she had felt in his arms, beneath his lips and in his bed. This was Tom, for sure, and yet it was surely an impostor. The Tom she had left that morning was not this Tom who had written the note and returned her money. Somehow that was incredibly hurtful. It was as though he was fully washing his hands of her; now they owed each other nothing. But why?

What occurred between this morning, when she had kissed him goodbye, and when he wrote that note? She could count the time in a few hours. Something had happened – something big – to change his mind from a man in love and wanting to marry, to a man walking away from her.

What had she done?

Tears welled as she pushed and pulled at the conundrum, and she let them fall. No one was watching – no one alive, anyway. Alfie was here and he was relying on her; he took priority over Tom.

She washed her hands with great care, pulled on her special apron and within moments had lost herself to her work, all her focus on attending to Alfie. The tasks were quick on such a tiny body but Fleur could not help lingering. It wasn’t enjoyable so much as satisfying, and it created a warm feeling within her as she took extra special care with his fragile skin and delicate hair. And through it all, as she prepared Alfie for his final journey, she felt all the rottenness and canker of Irma’s involvement in her life leaching away. It was as if Alfie’s beauty replaced it; each dainty and precise action on the tiny body refilled Fleur’s heart with affection.

She found it uncanny how death seemed to be bringing her back to full vigour; Alfie was reminding her about all that was precious in life. Irma was not important, and her sinister actions – true or false – were now in the past. That could not be changed. But Alfie was important. His brief life had meant joy, and Fleur wished she could brood on all that was brilliant in her life and leave the past behind. That meant no longer dwelling on her father’s mode of death, which would be hard to let go of, but now, all of a sudden, Tom was her past too.

He’d represented her future for a brief, glittering period: love, marriage, a child or children of their own . . . Find one thing, she pleaded with herself, and she focused on her plan for a new business. A new enterprise, a new era for her, which she could run exactly as she wished.

And in caring for Alfie, washing his tiny body, combing his wispy golden baby hair, massaging the little hands and feet away from their stiffness, simply reinforced to Fleur that this was what she was born to do. More than that, she knew she was the best in her craft.

She didn’t need this house any more. She didn’t need the Appleby’s reputation, or to be remembered for overcoming Irma’s voraciousness. And as much as she loved Tom, she didn’t need him for her business. She wanted to let that thought take root but a small voice followed up: But you need him for everything else. He is you. You have become one.

What she needed to do, she understood now, as she carefully buttoned on Alfie’s white christening gown, decorated with tiny blue embroidered bunnies, was to let go. Let go of it all . . . all the pain of being an orphan, of losing the mother who had adored her, of losing the father who she knew had loved her unequivocally. And of losing Tom, the only man she had ever felt any romantic attraction to. They were all gone now.