‘Papa,’ Margaret admonished, before turning her attention back to me. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Where Bridget was full of life and the plumpness of youth and Lydia was the elegant, cultivated one, Margaret had something of a practical and inquisitive good sense, an earthiness that showed in questioning blue eyes. Her hair was black and inclined to straightness.

‘We were just discussing what prompted my child’s rash actions,’ Winfield said, bringing the conversation back to the previous night.

‘I don’t know why I ran off,’ Bridget pouted, drawing deeply from a cup of orange juice. The elder sisters gave each other looks, but their father leaned closer, worry lines marring his forehead. ‘I just felt that I absolutely had to leave. So I did.’

‘It was foolish and dangerous,’ her mother reprimanded, shaking her napkin. ‘You could have died!’

‘I am glad to see you are doing so well today,’ I said politely. Bridget grinned, displaying teeth that had little bits of orange pulp stuck in them.

‘Yes. About that.’ Margaret spoke up, tapping her egg spoon on the side of her plate. ‘You say you found her covered in blood in the park?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I answered warily, taking the smallest piece of bacon on my plate. This sister sounded more astute than the others and wasn’t afraid to ask uncomfortable questions.

‘There was a lot of blood, and Bridget’s dress was torn.’ Margaret pressed, ‘Did you find it odd that there was no actual wound?’

‘Uh,’ I stammered. My mind raced. What could I say? The blood was someone else’s?

‘I thought there was a knife wound last night,’ Mrs Sutherland said, pursing her lips and thinking. ‘But it was just clotted blood, and wiping it down cleared it away.’

Margaret pierced me with her eyes.

‘Maybe she was afflicted with a nosebleed…?’ I mumbled lamely.

‘So you’re saying that you didn’t see any attacker when you came upon my sister?’ Margaret asked.