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He nodded. ‘In the back. He’s laid out there.’

She returned the nod with the barest of smiles. ‘My colleagues, Robbie and Albert,’ she gestured, ‘will wait outside until Mrs Bedford feels ready.’ She didn’t wait for him to say any more but stepped down the hallway, trying not to let her heels make any noise on the boards.

She found herself in the parlour, where a corpse was laid out in his pyjamas and dressing-gown on the table. Before she even looked around the room, Fleur automatically began making plans for his preparation. She judged that he was likely five hours dead at worst; rigor was in the face for sure, so it was travelling now through the body, blood pooling at his back. She needed to get Arthur Bedford to the mortuary and change the angle of his body to help prevent signs of lividity.

Satisfied with the beginnings of a plan, she looked up. A woman with swollen, red-rimmed eyes regarded her.

Fleur introduced herself quickly. ‘My father isn’t very well today, Mrs Bedford. I work with him daily and so I hope you don’t mind that I have come to attend to your husband.’

The woman blinked. ‘We . . . we brought him down here.’

Fleur nodded. ‘Do you have children?’

‘Two. They’re at school. The doctor came yesterday, and warned me my Arthur wouldn’t make it through the night. Well, he did. He called to me as the birds began singing. Had time to kiss his son and daughter farewell.’

Although she felt her emotions being stirred by Helen’s words, Fleur let a small smile break across her face, sensing this is what was needed in the moment.

‘Arthur said he couldn’t see anything but he could hear the dawn chorus and it was calling him to rest. “I won’t be going to the docks today, love,” he said,’ Helen recalled aloud, tears welling and spilling down her cheeks.

Fleur wanted to get the lads in immediately to cart Arthur Bedford away but that wouldn’t do. A family needed time to let go. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Bedford?’

The widow looked up in surprise. ‘Thank you. I haven’t eaten or drunk anything. It was all I could do to give our children some porridge and get them away this morning. They were so good . . . I was in too much of a state. They helped draw the curtains and stop the two clocks in the house.’

‘What time was the sad hour, may I ask?’

‘It was three minutes to six when my Arthur passed.’

Fleur glanced at her watch and calculated that Arthur had passed about three hours and twenty minutes earlier. ‘Thank you, I’ll remember that for our arrangements,’ she said, thinking about the small cast-iron piece her father had commissioned. It showed a clock face, beautifully rendered in iron, with curiously delicate hands that could be set to the time of death. He placed it on the coffin to inform mourners and prevent the upsetting question that always seemed to be on people’s lips. It was a small but special kindness to protect the grieving family, but Fleur understood it to be yet another reason that Appleby’s had flourished. ‘It’s the small things that add up, Fleur, remember that,’ he’d counselled. ‘No matter how inconsequential to you, it’s resonating somewhere with someone. If it has a positive effect, it will be remembered.’

Making her client a pot of tea was another small kindness. ‘No, don’t get up. Let me,’ Fleur said, filling a kettle.

‘My brother needs to get to work.’

‘Let me tell him to carry on. I’m here now. I won’t be leaving you and I won’t be hurrying you. Is anyone else coming over?’

Helen nodded. ‘My mother and Arthur’s sister are coming over this morning.’

‘Good. Then I’ll wait with you until they do.’ Fleur lit the stove and put the kettle on; the sound of the gas flame gurgling was comforting in the most domestic of ways. ‘You can tell me about Arthur. I’ll just speak with your brother.’

She found him lurking uncomfortably in the short hallway and Fleur suggested he go to his work.

He looked confused. ‘But who will . . .?’

‘I will, Mr Dawkins. I shall sit with your sister and your brother-in-law until the relatives arrive. Then, when I know Mrs Bedford feels ready, I will have Mr Bedford transferred to our funeral home and we will take care of him until all the arrangements are made for his interment.’

‘You’ll do this? I mean, you personally?’

Fleur nodded. ‘Of course. I’m an Appleby. It’s what we do.’ Her father might have slid her a glance of caution for showing too much pride, but she had a different style and he’d urged her to prove she could do this alone.

Mr Dawkins found a smile at her remark.

‘Please don’t worry,’ she reassured him. ‘I’ll keep your sister comforted until she has family around her. We’re about to have a pot of tea together . . . You get off, don’t be late.’

He shook his head, and the gesture spoke of gratitude mingling with wonder, she decided. Fleur could tell he was impressed.

‘I’ll just say my goodbyes, then.’

Fleur gave him a smile. ‘And I’ll let the boys know outside to cool their heels a while.’ She stepped out, informed her two companions that they were waiting for family members to arrive and took from them the items she had deliberately brought with her.