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attempted to rouse her, but Flora knew it was too late. The little girl’s life had slipped slowly away before their very eyes.
    That afternoon, Flora and Dr Tapper were riding in the doctor’s open trap pulled by his elderly grey pony. The death of the little girl had put everything else from
Flora’s mind but now Flora had a little time to think about the mysterious events earlier that morning. She had never known the doctor to be late for his surgery. Added to this was his
early-morning dismissal of Mrs Carver. Flora wondered if there had been a disagreement between them.
    ‘You know what to look out for, Flora,’ the doctor called to her as the trap bounced along. ‘Swollen glands or a sickly cough and skin infections. When I examined Mr Riggs, I
found nothing but fleas and malnourishment. Pray God that it’s the same for his other children.’
    Flora tried to hide her shudder. What would they find at Mr Riggs’ riverside hovel? The buildings in the road he lived in were derelict. It was a dockside terrace that often flooded at
high tide, and the crumbling structures were condemned. Flora knew the doctor had to examine Polly’s sisters and brothers. If any of them showed signs of diphtheria – the deadly,
infectious disease from which the doctor confirmed Polly had perished – they must be sent to the isolation hospital. There had been an outbreak of diphtheria two years ago. The quick march of
the disease had taken many of their patients’ lives.
    ‘Here we are.’ The doctor reined in the pony and climbed down from the cab. Flora followed. They looked up at what had once been a waterside cottage. Now its mossy green stonework
had collapsed. The windows were boarded. Mr Riggs opened the front door, which was a rotting piece of wood with no handle. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face full of grief.
    Flora tried not to breathe in the overpowering smell of damp and decay. She trod carefully over the duckboards, careful to avoid the muddy puddles creeping over them.
    There were just two rooms left in the broken, almost roofless building. The staircase had vanished. Above them were worm-eaten rafters. Flora saw what must be the kitchen and scullery to the
left – dark spaces, with a filthy stove. To the right was a large room, bereft of furniture. Two mattresses, stained by water, lay on the duckboards. Four children – two boys and two
girls, all younger than Polly – were huddled in a group. They were dressed in what were little more than rags, and barefoot. Flora’s heart went out to them.
    ‘I would like some clean water, boiled on the stove,’ the doctor told Mr Riggs. ‘My nurse will wash the children.’
    ‘Ain’t got no coke to light the stove,’ Mr Riggs said with a shrug.
    ‘Then we’ll have to make do with cold.’
    Flora always had strong disinfectant to hand. Naptha was used liberally for all forms of disease. Taking her apron from her bag, she tied it around her waist. Since the water was drawn from the
pump in the yard, she carried in a full pail for each of the children, adding a little of the disinfectant. The children screamed and kicked as she cleaned them. Flora tried to comfort them with
her soft voice, but their cries were too loud. There were no towels to dry them with, so she used a blanket from the trap. The doctor found the children to be like Mr Riggs: under-nourished and
infested with lice.
    ‘I’m very sorry about your sister,’ the doctor said to them when the miserable task was over. ‘Please try to wash yourselves each day. Learn to keep yourselves
clean.’ He turned to their father. ‘Have you no help?’
    ‘Nah. Who’d help us?’ Mr Riggs’ eyes filled with tears. ‘My Polly was the one who looked after ’em.’
    ‘Do the children go to school?’
    ‘They get sent ’ome again. The stink’s too much for the other kids.’
    The doctor frowned. ‘Something must be done about this.’
    ‘You ain’t gonna take ’em away, are yer?’ Mr Riggs