‘Hudge up!’ said Appleby, squeezing himself in beside Quinn. It meant somehow rotating the angle of Miss Dillard’s rigid body closer to the vertical. Timberley peered in with a forlorn expression, like a child deprived of a treat.

‘Drive as quickly as you can, without occasioning undue shocks,’ directed Quinn.

The taxi lurched off. It was soon apparent that the driver wanted them out of his cab as quickly as possible. Quinn’s admonition for caution was largely ignored.

The strangulated sound at the back of Miss Dillard’s throat tightened. Her hands became claws, clutching at their own pain. One somehow lodged on to Quinn’s forearm and again he was astonished by the strength hidden away in this frail, ruined woman.

He clung on to her as tightly as she clung on to him. He was trying to close down her convulsions with the firm press of his embrace. But also, he was aware that he was trying to hang on to the life in her. That if he let go of her, he would lose her.

The high pointed tower of the St George’s Union Infirmary, with its arched windows and weather vane, gave the building the appearance of a massively enlarged church. No doubt its vaguely religious architecture was meant to inspire hope. Now it was just a looming shape in the darkness. A shadow within a shadow.

Appleby sprang out and ran towards the great cathedral of medicine.

Quinn extricated himself more carefully. As he laid down her head, her body was wracked by its most violent convulsion yet. The foam at her mouth had blood in it now. There was every chance that she had bitten through her tongue.

In the dark, he could not see her eyes. He was unable even to imagine the beautiful shimmering grey of her irises. It was as if the blackness of her hugely dilated pupils had spread out and swamped everything. He felt a wrench at his heart at the thought that the beautiful pewter grey was lost forever. If only he could see her eyes, that grey, she would live. Everything depended on his being able to see her eyes. He wanted to call for a lamp, or a torch, to shine into her face. To dispel the blackness that had seeped into everything.

Her legs gave a final double kick against the inside of the cab, then stiffened. Her arms formed jagged shapes, and held them, as sharp and permanent as the branches of petrified trees. The strangulated gurgling in her throat was no more.

FORTY

The next day, inside the curtained house, he could not dispel the blackness from the corners of his vision. He looked for the gleaming pewter grey of her eyes everywhere. But the only grey was the dour cheerless grey of an empty English Sunday. A godless, lifeless grey.

There were murmured consolations, though why it was felt that he needed consoling more than anyone else he could not grasp.

The other lodgers wanted to discuss why she might have done it. They sat in the front parlour drinking tea. The question came to their lips as regularly as the bone china.

‘But why, that’s what I cannot understand?’ Clink.

‘Why would she do such a thing?’ Clink.

‘What on earth could have possessed her?’ Clink.

And all the other variations of why? punctuated by the chinking of cup against saucer.

The question was never answered, except by a furtive, meaning look in Quinn’s direction.

Were they placing her death on his conscience? But how could it be his fault? All he had done was offer to pay her rent until she was in a better position to pay it herself. How could that be the reason she had killed herself?

Mrs Ibbott distracted the attention from him somewhat by blaming herself, not without some justification, Quinn felt. But the focus of her self-recrimination was entirely on the means by which Miss Dillard killed herself, rather than her motivation. It seemed that the strychnine had been given to Mrs Ibbott years ago by a male cousin who was a gamekeeper on a Suffolk estate. At the time, there had been a problem with rats in the cellar. The bottle had remained at the back of the scullery cupboard ever since. How Miss Dillard had known about it, or whether she had simply gone looking for some suitable substance to achieve her goal, was a matter of speculation.

Betsy, the maid, was distraught. She was the last to have seen Miss Dillard alive, leaving the kitchen with something concealed in her hands. She had thought at the time that it was a crust of bread or an apple, perhaps. But it now seemed clear that it was the bottle of strychnine. ‘If only I had said something … It’s all my fault …’

‘No.’ Quinn was watching Timberley and Appleby as he spoke. He noticed that for once they had little to say for themselves. Perhaps they sensed that their characteristic facetiousness would be out of place. Or perhaps it was a sense of guilt that inhibited them. Quinn continued: ‘You were not to know. You said nothing out of kindness, because you feared it would embarrass her if she had taken something to eat. You mustn’t blame yourself.’ His words were meant for Betsy, but he continued looking at the two young men.

At last, Appleby looked up and caught his eye. Colour rushed to his cheeks.

‘Mr Appleby, would you step outside the parlour and speak with me for a moment.’ Quinn voiced it as a command, not a question.

In the hallway, he closed the door with quiet precision on Mr Timberley’s anxious, inquisitive face.

‘How may I be of service?’ Appleby whispered.

‘She overheard you. You and Timberley, speaking of a matter that related to me. What did you say?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What did you and Timberley say to each other?’ There was a quality to the sudden firmness of Quinn’s voice that was consistent with the moment he had threatened to kill the cabbie last night.

Appleby must have sensed this. ‘We … we may have talked about the fact that you had offered to pay her rent. Mary – Miss Ibbott – told us.’

‘And she heard you? Miss Dillard heard you?’

‘I don’t know. How can we know? We were on the landing. Her door was ajar. And then it closed.’

‘It closed. Can you remember exactly what had been said just before the door closed?’

‘It wasn’t anything. Not anything that could have precipitated … this.’

‘What did you say? What were the exact words?’

‘Exact words? I don’t know. You can’t expect me to remember the exact words. One of us might have said something about you taking pity on her.’

‘Pity?’

‘Yes. Well, isn’t that what it was?’

Quinn narrowed his eyes but did not answer.

‘At any rate, I cannot see the harm in that. How could that induce her to take her own life?’ Appleby even had the effrontery to add: ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, old chap.’

But Quinn was thinking only of her eyes, trying to remember the exact quality of their metallic hue. It was there, in them, that Miss Dillard was beautiful.

‘I say, it wasn’t more than that, was it? It wasn’t more than pity?’

Quinn wondered if he should try to explain it to Appleby. But first he would have to explain it to himself and he was not sure that he could. He did not know why he had offered to pay Miss Dillard’s rent, but he did not think it was out of pity. It was rather because he had found the thought of never seeing her eyes again unbearable.

FORTY-ONE

Quinn got out of the Model T in Harley Street and looked up. His gaze deliberately sought out the sun. The effect was as he knew it would be. The white orb turned black. The blackness spread out from it, contaminating the milky sky.

An all-encompassing darkness descended.

He had brought this darkness on himself, because today he could not bear the sight of the world, the pitiless cruelty of its renewal.

In many ways Miss Dillard’s death had come as a release from the intractable difficulties of her life. It was all very sad and unnecessary, but he should not reproach himself. He had done all he could for her. Of course, all he could was not enough to save her life. But that was not the same as to say that he was to blame for her death.