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‘Ten. You sound older.’

‘You just said I seemed young.’

‘I know. You confuse me.’

‘Why aren’t you crying?’

‘Will that prove I’m sad?’

‘It might get you some sympathy. Why isn’t there family around you?’

‘I don’t have any.’ He tipped another nod, this time towards the door. ‘None of those people out there have ever seen me. They just wanted my mother’s body back, or so they say. I think I’m a nuisance for them.’

As he said this, they were interrupted by the bustling arrival of the lady of the house, smelling richly of floral perfume.

‘And who is this?’ she queried.

Her father stood a step behind her. ‘Er, this is my daughter, Fleur.’

Fleur curtsied as she’d been taught. ‘Good morning, Mrs Darnell. I’m sorry for your bereavement.’

‘Good gracious,’ the woman breathed. ‘How precocious.’

Henry Appleby gave an awkward twitch of his mouth, hidden by his moustache and beard, that approximated a brief grin. ‘Would you believe that Fleur knows almost as much as most apprentices in the funeral business? Right now, I suspect she might be a good distraction for your sister’s boy, while we . . . er . . .’ Henry gestured towards Tom.

‘Yes, indeed. You children might like a glass of milk in the parlour while Mr Appleby and I talk. Miss Jackson will help. I would introduce my own daughter but she’s rather sickly today. Off you go, you two. Make no noise, please.’

‘Come on, Tom,’ Fleur urged after glancing at her father and observing his nod. She offered a hand and was surprised when he took it. They left the room where his dead mother lay. ‘Which way?’ she whispered.

Tom pointed. ‘Through here, but the housekeeper is mean,’ he whispered.

Fleur grinned. ‘Leave her to me.’

Inside the parlour, the woman who had greeted them, still with a disapproving expression on her face, did indeed await them, and Fleur positioned herself slightly ahead of Tom to face the housekeeper

‘Hello, Miss Jackson? Mrs Darnell wondered if you’d be kind enough to pour Tom here some milk . . . and perhaps offer some biscuits? Nothing for me, though, thank you.’ She gave a sweet smile. ‘I’ve had a big breakfast,’ she lied.

Tom was right. Miss Jackson’s mouth had a mean-spirited cast to it – thin and straight, as though it had been drawn permanently in ink and was forbidden to move from its original horizontal line.

‘Go into the garden,’ she said, motioning with a dismissive wave. ‘I don’t want you spilling crumbs on my freshly swept floor. And don’t make a noise.’

‘No, we’ve already been told that,’ Fleur said, managing to sound sweet and yet somehow defiant.

The woman stared at her, obviously trying to make up her mind as to which.

Nevertheless, Fleur and Tom obediently followed her instructions, making their way to a bench as far from the back door as possible so they wouldn’t be overheard.

‘What a witch,’ Fleur said and liked the sound of Tom’s laugh when it came. It was gone in a heartbeat. ‘I feel like walking in some mud and deliberately striding back inside.’

‘You’re brave for someone so small,’ Tom said, sounding impressed.

Fleur shook her head. ‘She couldn’t do much with my father in the house, but then she may take it out on you.’

‘I won’t be here long enough.’

‘Why not?’

Before they could say more, Miss Jackson appeared at the back door. Fleur stood up as though ready to take her on. ‘Wait here, Tom, I’ll get it.’ She ran towards the housekeeper. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, feigning polite sincerity as she took a small tray from the housekeeper.