COPYRIGHT

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1994

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008171827

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008171834

Version [2016-02-18]

DEDICATION

For Kath

with love,

remembering the old days

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

The rain had blown itself out in the night and Tuesday morning was fine, unusually mild for the first week in February.

In the spacious front bedroom of his substantial Edwardian dwelling in Oakfield Gardens, in one of the best residential suburbs of Brentworth, a thriving town of considerable size, James Milroy had slept soundly, as he did every night, from very soon after getting into bed. At six-thirty, as every weekday morning, the radio alarm on his bedside table sprang suddenly to life at the start of a news and current affairs programme.

James came awake, as always, on the instant. He threw back his covers and got out of bed, all his movements performed with his habitual minimum of noise. He gave his customary close attention to the recital of events and opinions, overnight market reports.

He was a tall, lean man of forty-nine, he looked fit and energetic. His hair was still thick and dark, he had kept his trim waistline; he could easily pass for ten years younger. He had a high forehead, a quiet face, shrewd and subtle, a penetrating gaze, a controlled manner. He looked very much what he was: a senior partner in a highly reputable firm of auditors and registrars, with its head office in Brentworth.

James had read law at the university, intending to make a career as a solicitor, but had later changed his mind, deciding instead to qualify as a chartered accountant. He had sprung from a background that was far from privileged and had made his way by dint of single-minded determination and unremitting hard work.

In the equally spacious front bedroom across the landing, the insistent trilling of her alarm clock finally roused James’s wife from a heavy, unrefreshing sleep; it was years since Esther had gone to bed without a sleeping pill.

She dragged herself out of bed to make a sketchy toilet before going down to cook breakfast for James. She was five years younger than her husband. She had married at eighteen in a flush of girlish romance; she had borne her first son before the year was out, her second, two years later. She had been very pretty as a girl, with a slender figure, delicate features, curly brown hair and a beautiful skin. Now she was thin and bony, with the look of a trapped bird. The curly brown hair had thinned and was showing threads of grey; the fine skin had developed a pervasive pattern of lines while she was still in her thirties. She appeared now a good ten years older than her husband.

Before she went downstairs, she drew back her curtains and opened wide the casement windows. The birds were astir, the sky was streaked with rose. She leaned out into the gentle air. To be away from it all, on her own, to be done with demands, routine, role-playing, to begin life all over again, in some far off, peaceful place, on her own terms this time – whatever those might prove to be. She drew a long sigh and turned from the window.

As she closed her bedroom door, James came out of his room on his way to the bathroom. She gave him a consciously bright greeting, adding in a rush, ‘It’s really quite warm this morning.’ He responded with detached courtesy. They might have been total strangers making conversation in a station waiting room.

Esther went on down to the kitchen and set about making her husband’s breakfast exactly as he liked it, as she had done throughout the twenty-six years of their marriage. She was an excellent cook, a punctilious housekeeper.

Upstairs, a little later, as James stood before the long mirror of his wardrobe, casting a final comprehensive glance over his reflection, he suddenly remembered the damp patch in the chimney breast in his wife’s bedroom, recently attended to by the local jobbing builder. He went across the landing to see how the repair had withstood the driving rain of yesterday evening.

It had stood up very well, not a sign of water coming through. As he turned to leave the room, he glanced about. He scarcely ever set foot in the room these days.

A couple of books on the bedside table caught his eye. He picked up the top book, looked at the cover, skimmed through the blurb. It was a best-selling blockbuster novel about a woman who left her cold-blooded, overbearing husband to branch out on her own, ending up, it seemed, with a succession of well-heeled lovers, spectacular business success, a sensational wardrobe and a lifestyle that whirled her continually about the globe.

As he picked up the second book, he saw beneath it a number of brightly-coloured travel brochures. His look sharpened. He set the book down again and picked up the brochures. They extolled the charms of distant islands, exotic lands. He glanced swiftly through them before replacing them exactly as he had found them.

He stood for some moments in thought, then he crossed the room to where framed family photographs were ranged on the chest of drawers. He selected one and stood gazing intently down at it: the formal wedding group of Esther’s brother, Matthew Dalton, five years her senior. James had been best man at the wedding, seventeen years ago. His own face looked back at him from the group, composed, faintly smiling, revealing nothing.

His eye travelled on and came to rest on the bride, Nina. Twenty-three years old on her wedding day, nine years younger than her bridegroom. Deliciously pretty, smiling confidently out at the camera.

Esther was there, as matron of honour, expensively dressed, without elegance, her youthful prettiness already fading, her expression anxious, her shoulders a little hunched.

He put the photograph back in its place and left the room. At seven-thirty on the dot, as every weekday morning, he went downstairs with a springy step. His breakfast was properly laid and served in the breakfast room opening off the kitchen, although there were only the two of them these days, now that both boys were grown up and gone. James would never have countenanced the slipshod eating of a meal at the kitchen table; things must be done with order and propriety. Esther joined him only in a cup of coffee, taken on the wing, as she fussed about between the two rooms.

James ate with a good appetite. He said not a word about the damp patch or his visit to his wife’s bedroom. He glanced through his newspaper as he ate. When Esther brought in the post he glanced through that too; there was nothing of any urgency.

Esther’s mail arose largely from her voluntary work for various charities, local and national; she concerned herself especially with the welfare of the elderly and the terminally ill.

‘Have you anything interesting on today?’ James asked casually as he proffered his cup for a refill.

‘I’m visiting one or two patients at the hospice,’ she told him. The Brentworth hospice was housed in large, rambling premises, soundly built, that had at one time been a private school. The hospice was long established, well supported locally; it had received a number of substantial legacies over the years and was in a strong financial position.

For some years now, Esther had given time to befriending individual patients. When death claimed one of their number she added another to her list. There had been a drive a year or two back to encourage the hospice volunteers to acquire some degree of nursing skills and a course had been arranged. Nina Dalton had been an enthusiastic advocate of the scheme and had persuaded Esther to enrol. Esther had dutifully attended every class and had just about scraped through to gain her certificate. Nina had been the star pupil.

‘Then I’ll be addressing envelopes later on for the Cannonbridge appeal,’ Esther continued. ‘I promised Nina I’d put in a couple of hours.’ Nina was a tireless worker for many good causes in the area. She had a good deal of professional expertise, having been a paid employee of a well-known charitable organization before her marriage. Esther greatly admired Nina; she would dearly have liked to achieve her confidence and elegance. She had even tried buying the same designer clothes but they never looked right on her, she couldn’t carry them off as her sister-in-law could.

The appeal currently occupying much of Nina’s attention was for a proposed new hospice over in Cannonbridge, a town somewhat smaller in size than Brentworth. Cannonbridge had only a small hospice, set up many years ago, at the start of the hospice movement, struggling along now in run-down and inconvenient premises.

A patient who had spent the final months of his life in the hospice last year, a well-to-do businessman with no surviving relatives, had made a new will shortly before he died, leaving his entire fortune to go towards the provision of a new, purpose-built hospice.

His proposal received enthusiastic local support and an appeal was set up to secure the rest of the finance. It wasn’t long before the project grew more ambitious. The hospice would now be larger than originally intended; it would, in certain circumstances, admit a proportion of patients from the rest of the county. The scope of the appeal widened and fundraising events were held in many towns and parishes. One such event was a buffet lunch, organized by a club James belonged to; the lunch would be held this coming Friday in a central hall in Brentworth.

James finished his breakfast and stood up from the table. ‘I’ll be eating out this evening,’ he said, as more often than not these days. Years ago, after the birth of her second child, Esther had begun to suffer from nervous trouble and had struggled against it ever since. James had early taken to entertaining clients and associates at a restaurant or one of his clubs, in order to save his wife trouble; he had never departed from the habit.

He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek as he left; he always got to the office early. The forced lightness of Esther’s manner vanished as soon as he was gone, to be replaced by the inward looking expression, resentful and bitter, she now habitually wore when alone; it was beginning to show in her face in company these days more often than she realized.

She cleared the breakfast table, leaving everything tidy against the arrival of her daily help, a competent woman who had been with her for years. She went slowly up to her bedroom. The sky was now a soft blue, the morning sunny. Down in the garden there were drifts of snowdrops under the trees.

As she changed her housecoat for a towelling robe, she paused by the chest of drawers to look down at the photographs of her sons at various ages. She had been overjoyed when her first son was born. How proud and pleased James had been, how delighted her parents. What hopes she had entertained in that euphoric time that the birth of his first grandchild might bring her closer at last to her father. But that hadn’t come about. Nor had the birth of the second grandchild wrought the miracle either.

James had worked ever harder, pushing his way unflaggingly up the ladder; she saw less and less of him. She had made her life round her sons; that had got her along in a fashion. But as they grew older they clearly manifested themselves as their father’s sons, not hers – in looks, brains, interests, ambitions. They humoured her, patronized her, never sought her views on anything. Now they had grown up and gone. The elder was working for an international finance house and was currently spending twelve months in Tokyo; the younger was taking his master’s degree in business administration at Harvard.

She went along to the bathroom and ran her bath. Nina and Matthew had no children. Nina had made no bones about it: she didn’t want any. She had made that clear to Matthew from the start. Matthew, it seemed, hadn’t minded one way or the other and had cheerfully fallen in with her wishes. Esther had felt vaguely shocked and disapproving when Nina had first casually mentioned this – but look at the difference between her and Nina now. Nina leading a busy, extrovert life, happy and useful, totally absorbed in what she did, admired and welcomed everywhere, with a husband plainly devoted to her. Nina had kept her looks, her figure, had even improved on them since her marriage. And what of herself? What had she to show for twenty-six years of marriage and motherhood? A husband who addressed barely half a dozen sentences to her in the course of twenty-four hours, sons who condescended towards her. A personality, mouse-like enough to start out with but now so dimmed that she often felt invisible as she went through the motions of her routine existence. Much of the time she found her work for charity – the same work that gave Nina stimulus and satisfaction – little more than a tedious chore; on her worst days it served only to depress her still further.

She lay back in the water and raised one arm above her head. With her other hand she began her obsessive daily palpating of her breasts, always fearing to discover some tiny lump. Her mother had died of breast cancer at the age of forty-six, only two years older than herself at this moment. Esther had been fifteen when she first learned that her mother was ill, seventeen when she died. She and Matthew were both away at school or college in those years. Every holiday, when she came home, she would see the steady, remorseless decline. She had greatly loved her quiet, gentle mother; greatly grieved when she was gone.

One ray of hope she had permitted herself in all the heartrending sorrow: that it might bring her closer to her father. But that hadn’t come about.

She had minded a good deal when he had married again, three years later, although she had been married two years herself by then. She had tried hard not to mind his marriage, she didn’t want him to be lonely. The rational part of her understood and accepted the remarriage – but not the deeper, instinctive part.

She had never been close to her father. Bernard Dalton had been a reticent, undemonstrative man, a religious man of strong character and strict principles. Energetic and hard-working, devoting much of his time to building up the family business: printing, with a certain amount of specialist publishing. He did a good deal of charitable work, always endeavouring to put his principles into practice as a private citizen and in his business life.

Esther had always feared him, had always striven her utmost to please him. It was in an attempt to win his regard that she had first begun to work for charity.

But she had always been close to her brother. There had always been love between them, unalloyed and uncritical on her side, tolerant and understanding on Matthew’s. She had envied the seemingly easy way Matthew had been able as he grew up to shake himself free from the powerful governance of their father and strike out on his own, something she could never have dreamed of attempting herself.

It was through Matthew she had met James Milroy, a few months after the death of her mother. The two young men had been students together – not that they had ever been close friends, then or now; their temperaments were too different.

Esther had been very ready to fall in love; she saw marriage and motherhood as shining goals. She had been overjoyed when her father gave his blessing to the match. She had married before she was properly grown up, before she had tasted anything of life.

When she took her marriage vows she took them unequivocally, for life, in the certainty that James felt the same. They had both been brought up to shudder at the thought of divorce.

But she no longer shuddered at the thought. She yearned now to be done with her arid marriage. Time might be running out for her, as it had for her mother. If she was ever to gather the courage to make another life for herself she had better not leave it much longer.

What held her back? She could answer that in one word: money. She had none of her own, had never earned a single penny; she had no qualifications, no training. She had been dependent on others from the day she was born, she had always been accustomed to comfort and plenty; she quailed at the thought of having to set about earning her own living for the first time now.

She had received only a modest legacy on her father’s death, all dribbled away in the six years since then. The bulk of his estate had been left in trust for Grace, his second wife, fifteen years his junior; it wouldn’t be distributed till after her death.

She pulled out the plug and got to her feet. She reached for a towel and began to dry herself.

She had no legal grounds of any kind for divorcing James; she was certain he would never agree to a divorce by mutual consent. It suited him to have his home well run by a compliant wife, to present a façade of conventional domestic harmony to the circle in which he moved. If she simply took herself off she would be forced to wait five years to secure a divorce. She was equally certain James would contribute nothing to her support in those five years. He had a sharp legal brain, he would get the better of her in any contest she might try to set up.

There was nothing for it; she would have to look out for herself.

CHAPTER 2

As club treasurer, James had helped to organize the charity buffet lunch, as he had helped to organize – always with considerable success – other charitable events over the years for his various clubs.

Friday was always a good day for such an event; the approach of the weekend lent a relaxed, holiday air to the proceedings. Folk were more willing to give up a little time to attend, loosen their purse strings, heed the voice of compassion.

The food was excellent, the coffee first class. James circulated diligently, drumming up donations and promises of donations. By one-forty-five he had achieved a very respectable figure – with more to come; people were still arriving. Among them he caught sight of the tall figure of his brother-in-law, Matthew Dalton. Matthew was chatting expansively to another latecomer, glancing cheerfully about, with his ready smile. Never short on the charm, James said to himself.

A minute or two later, James made his way across the hall to where Matthew stood surveying the array of buffet dishes. Nowadays, it wasn’t only Matthew’s manner that was expansive; years of affluent living had done little to hold his waistline in check. His good looks were also losing the battle. His hairline was receding, he had the slightly flushed face of the man who drinks a little too much. Like James, he was a chartered accountant, but, unlike his brother-in-law, he had set up on his own twenty years ago. His offices were situated in an upmarket block close to the centre of Brentworth.

Matthew watched James cross the floor towards him; James exuded his customary air of power, positive success. ‘A pretty good turn out,’ James commented as he came up. ‘Better than I’d hoped for.’ He directed Matthew’s attention to dishes he considered especially good. ‘I’ll give Nina a ring when I’ve got the final figures,’ he added. ‘She’ll be delighted.’

James drank a sociable cup of coffee as they stood chatting. He passed on to Matthew a rumour he had heard earlier in the day: a firm of asset managers in a neighbouring town was being investigated by the Fraud Squad. Matthew expressed surprise at the rumour; he would have thought the firm soundly based; they were certainly long established.

‘You can’t always go by that these days,’ James said with a knowing movement of his head. More than one good firm had gone down in the recession through spiralling difficulties, and the sorry saga was not yet over, even though better times were on the way. ‘A bit of speculating, soon it’s robbing Peter to pay Paul, next thing it’s outright gambling. Over-extended all round, no margin anywhere, teetering along on the edge of the precipice. Only takes the smallest extra shove – some international ruckus, a blip on the currency markets – and over they go, for good.’ He eyed Matthew. ‘How are you finding things these days?’

Matthew helped himself to a particularly appetizing dish. ‘Pretty good, all things considering,’ he responded heartily.

As James set off once more in pursuit of donations, Matthew stood gazing after him. Oh, boy, he said wryly to himself, if you only knew the half of it. There wasn’t much anyone could tell Matthew about the perils of recession and the unorthodox easements always so temptingly close to hand. He gave a little shudder and closed his eyes for a moment.

He had a brief flash of vision: his father’s face, his shrewd eyes contemplating him. What would that principled man of business have to say if he could see him now, could know the dire straits he had got himself into? He shuddered again at the thought. His father would dearly have liked him to go into the family business but Matthew had little interest in printing and publishing, and shrank moreover from the idea of working for the father he had always found intimidating.

All he had received outright on his father’s death had been a modest legacy of precisely the same amount as that left to his sister, Esther.

He began to eat, scarcely tasting the food. If he could just manage to keep going, struggle through into the boom that must surely come, without ruin or disgrace – or, paralysing thought, a gaol sentence. If he could scrape through without Nina ever having to know. That would be the part of any catastrophe he would relish least of all, letting down his beloved Nina, having to break the news to her that the glory days were over, the gravy train had finally smashed into the buffers. Pray God it never came to that, but if, God forbid, it ever did, then thank God for a wife with backbone and loyalty. Whatever happened, Nina would never whine or indulge in self pity. However low the depths to which he sank, there was always the cast iron certainty that she would stand by him to the end.

A business acquaintance came up, calling out a friendly greeting. Matthew at once switched on his cheerful smile, his look of lively interest, his genial, on-top-of-the-world manner.

CHAPTER 3

It was easy to imagine Nina Dalton as a fashion model, with her tall, willowy figure, fine-boned face, honey-coloured skin and large, expressive eyes of a clear golden amber. Her wealth of pale blonde hair, full of natural waves and curls, was taken up on top of her head, displaying the graceful line of her neck.

She had worked for charity in one capacity or another, paid or voluntary, since the day she had left secretarial college. She wasn’t a native of Brentworth but came from a small town some distance away. It was when she was on the payroll of a national charitable organization that she had first met Matthew Dalton; she had called on him in the course of a fundraising campaign directed largely at businessmen.

She had walked in through the door of his office at a crucial moment in Matthew’s life. He had just managed to break away from a long entanglement with an older woman, a divorcée, good-looking and sophisticated, with more than one string to her bow. Matthew had finally realized the relationship was leading nowhere, it was time his bachelor days were done; what he needed now was a conventional marriage, settled and supportive. He married Nina three months after she walked into his office.

She had spent the latter part of Friday morning dealing swiftly and competently with the affairs of a small local charity set up a hundred and fifty years ago for the benefit of retired governesses by a wealthy widow who had herself been a governess before her marriage. The endowment, so munificent seeming in its day, was now greatly eroded and governesses were a dying breed. These days, the charity’s business required only an hour or two of Nina’s time on alternate Friday mornings. For this purpose she was allowed a corner in the Brentworth office of a national charity for the welfare of the elderly: Friends of the Third Age. Any mail that arrived for her was always put aside unopened against her next visit.

On Friday afternoon, Nina gave her time to the Cannonbridge hospice appeal, taking her seat at a desk in one of the rooms behind a thrift shop in a side street; the shop had offered free use of the room for the duration of the appeal.

The bulk of essential money had now been raised and building work was due to start on the hospice site at the end of February. A well-known television entertainer, a dedicated supporter of the hospice movement, had promised to lay the foundation stone a month later. But there could be no slackening in the fundraising. Money would be needed for the upkeep and running of the hospice, for the many extras, improvements and refinements that would be looked for along the way.

Nina spent the first part of her stint sketching out yet another publicity campaign; publicity was one of her fortes. She was still busy with minor matters at the end of the afternoon when the other voluntary workers had gone. The phone rang on her desk: James Milroy, acquainting her with the outcome of the buffet lunch. As he had predicted, she was delighted with the figures.

‘Wonderful weather we’re having just now,’ James went on to remark. ‘I imagine you’ll be thinking about opening up the cottage any day now.’

‘I imagine I will,’ she agreed. The cottage stood in beautiful countryside, the best part of two miles from the nearest village, in a spot roughly equidistant from Brentworth and Cannonbridge. It had belonged to the Dalton family for a great many years and currently formed part of the trust property. James and Esther had spent weekends there in the early days of their marriage and Esther had made regular use of it later, when the boys were small; she still retained a key. The cottage was now used chiefly by Matthew and Nina. Nina had devoted considerable time and effort to having it extended and modernized, the furnishings and decorations renewed, the garden set to rights. Esther made little use of her key these days. She would sometimes drive over there when she felt particularly low, wandering round the garden in a fruitless nostalgic attempt to recapture the happiness of the first years of her marriage when her days were full and satisfying, without the need to go searching for activities to fill them.

‘I might take a run over there myself, one day next week, if the weather holds,’ James continued, his voice light and easy.

‘Might you, indeed?’ Nina returned, equally lightly. In theory, James and Esther were as free to use the cottage as Matthew and Nina, but in practice Matthew and Nina would seem to have taken over the property completely.

‘Maybe I’ll see you there,’ James added.

‘I rather doubt it.’ Her tone was friendly, touched with amusement, but with a hint of underlying granite; she kept from her voice any lingering echo of old sentiment. She had known James before she met Matthew, she had encountered him in the same way, through her fundraising activities. If James had not been a married man with two young sons, a man still moving up the ladder, careful not to blot his copybook in any way, Nina would in all probability at this moment have been Mrs James Milroy instead of Mrs Matthew Dalton.

Nina glanced round at the sound of the door opening. A woman came into the room, a voluntary worker with a problem to be solved. Nina brought the conversation with James to a rapid conclusion.

Shortly after the woman left, Nina had another caller: a publican with a handsome cheque from various fundraising activities organized among his customers. Nina thanked him warmly and wrote him out an official receipt. His eyes rested on the elegant gold pen she used, an engraved inscription discernible along the barrel; he made an admiring comment. Nina smiled and held out the pen for him to read the inscription. The pen had been presented to her a few years ago after she had worked night and day to raise money for a local day centre, threatened with closure, for handicapped and disabled youngsters. The pen hadn’t been bought out of the money raised for the centre but by a private whip-round the youngsters’ parents had made among themselves, in appreciation of Nina’s prodigious – and wholly successful – efforts.

After the publican had departed, Nina rang Matthew, as she always did, to ask what his plans were for the evening, what he wanted her to do about a meal. He told her he’d be staying on at his office again, he’d be home around eight.

‘That’ll be fine,’ she assured him. She didn’t stay chatting, she knew how busy he was these days. She could now work on at her desk a little longer, there were still matters to attend to. She made a number of phone calls, checking and finalizing arrangements for a sponsored half marathon to be run shortly by older pupils from local schools. Then she sat considering the merits of making another round of all the business premises in town, deciding at length in favour of it. It could be carried out this time by a team of pretty girls; that would surely bring in a worthwhile sum. She could get Verity Thorburn to round up a decorative bunch from among her fellow students.

Verity was a connection of Nina’s by marriage, a great niece of Nina’s father-in-law, Bernard Dalton. Over the years, Bernard had gathered more than one stray chick under his wing. As an orphan and a relative, Verity had had a double claim to his protection. She was at present taking a course at the Brentworth College of Further Education. She was always ready to assist Nina, always willing to do what she could for the hospice appeal.

Nina looked at her watch. Too early to ring Verity now, she would still be at the college; she had a late class on Fridays. She would ring her at her flat later this evening.

The college was a large building, put up after the Second World War. Verity was taking a two-year course, begun shortly after her seventeenth birthday, eighteen months ago. She had chosen a somewhat unusual combination of subjects: secretarial skills, cordon bleu cookery and art. She enjoyed them all and was doing well.

At a few minutes after seven she came out of the college, bound for the little basement flat where she lived alone. She had moved there six months ago from the larger flat she had shared with two other girls, both students at the college.

She was slightly built, not very tall, with an elfin face, big brown eyes, a vulnerable look. Her long dark hair hung straight and heavy. Her temperament was highly mercurial; she harboured deep feelings of insecurity, due in no small measure to the abrupt and brutal fashion in which she had been orphaned at the age of nine.

Her parents and maternal grandparents had all been medical missionaries in Africa; the grandmother was a sister of Bernard Dalton. When the grandparents were retiring, they decided to spend a month at the mission station run by Verity’s parents before returning to England for good.

In the middle of their visit, Verity attended a birthday party given for the daughter of friends living some distance away; she was to stay overnight. In the early hours of the morning the mission station was attacked by a roving band of marauders who had slipped over the border from a neighbouring territory under cover of darkness. The buildings were looted and burned, every man, woman and child – black or white – savagely butchered.

A week later, Verity was sent home to England, into the care of her great uncle, Bernard Dalton, and his second wife, Grace.

Now, on this fine February evening, as she set off for her flat, she caught sight of someone standing by the entrance gates, looking across at her. Her heart gave a wild leap of joy. It was Ned Hooper; it was more than a week since she’d set eyes on him.

Then her heart sank. He didn’t come forward to meet her but remained unsmiling by the gates, waiting for her to reach him. It didn’t augur well.

Ned was eighteen years older than Verity. Tall and strongly built, good-looking in a very English way, with fair hair and blue eyes, an open expression. He had studied art at the college and now did occasional supply teaching in the art department, to eke out the exceedingly slender living he contrived to make as an artist.

‘Are you coming along to the flat?’ Verity wanted to know, the moment she had greeted him. Her manner was intense and eager. Her main reason for moving to a flat of her own was so that the pair of them could be together without the knowledge of her flatmates – or her relatives and guardians.

Ned shook his head with resolution. He knew once they were indoors she’d try every trick in the book to get round him. Or else she’d set about creating the kind of scene he couldn’t stomach. He gestured in the direction of a small public garden near by. ‘We can talk over there.’

They walked side by side, in silence, not touching, till they reached the garden. At this time of evening there were few strollers along the gravel paths. They found a seat beside the beds of winter heather; in silence they sat down, a little apart. She sat stiffly upright, gazing straight ahead, waiting for him to begin.

‘We’ve had some good times,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t forget them. But they’re over now, it’s definitely finished.’ Her head came sharply round, she darted a beseeching look at him from her great dark eyes. It was those eyes he had first noticed, fixed on him in class, with that intense, searching gaze, the gaze he had once found so intriguing.

‘It doesn’t have to be finished,’ she declared vehemently.

He didn’t waver. ‘I’m afraid it does. It really is over. You’ll meet someone else, someone your own age. You’ll forget about me in no time at all.’

She clenched her fists. ‘I don’t want anyone else. I want you.’

‘I’m afraid you can’t have me,’ he threw back at her with asperity. ‘I’m bowing out for good.’ With an effort he softened his tone again. ‘You must accept it’s over. It does no good trying to argue about it.’

‘It’s Mrs Bradshaw,’ she said with sudden ferocity. ‘You’re moving in with her, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I am moving in with her,’ he replied brusquely. ‘I’m a free agent.’

Her voice rose. ‘You don’t love her! You can’t! She’s old and fat.’

‘She’s neither old nor fat,’ he retorted. Mrs Freda Bradshaw was in fact forty-two years old. She might carry a little more flesh than was currently fashionable, but it was certainly no hardship to look at her. She had been a good-looking girl and was still an attractive woman. She was the widow of a man more than thirty years her senior, the owner of a chain of cut-price clothing stores up north. She had started out at sixteen as a sales assistant in one of his stores and had early taken his eye. When his wife died, Freda lost no time in stepping into her shoes.

She had played fair throughout the years that followed. She had been genuinely fond of her husband, had looked after him devotedly in his old age, nursed him in his last illness. She had inherited everything. There had been no children from his first marriage, no relatives to argue the toss.

Freda had then set wholeheartedly about enjoying the rewards of her devotion. She sold the business and salted away the proceeds, then she set off for fresh pastures. Some wind blew her before long to Brentworth. She came across Ned Hooper at an art exhibition.

‘I can’t bear to think of you with that woman.’ Verity laid an urgent hand on his arm. ‘If it’s just her money, you know I’ve got money coming to me one day. Quite a lot of money. You can have it all.’

He shook off her hand. ‘I don’t want your money,’ he said roughly. ‘What do you take me for?’

She wasn’t done yet. ‘I’m sure I could get hold of some of the money now. You can have every penny.’

He made a contemptuous gesture of dismissal and got to his feet. She remained seated, looking pleadingly up at him. ‘You’d better get it into your head,’ he said with profound irritation. ‘This really is goodbye.’ He went rapidly off along the path.

She sat biting her lip, staring after him as he plunged out of the garden, disappearing from view along the busy evening pavement.

Shortly before seven-thirty, Esther came out of the Brentworth hospice where she had been putting in a little extra visiting, as she not infrequently did on evenings when James wouldn’t be home before bedtime. She didn’t use her car if the weather was fine, as it was tonight; the walk both ways helped to fill the long stretch of time.

She set off without haste in the direction of Oakfield Gardens and her solitary supper, choosing her usual route that took her through the town centre with its cheerful bustle and brightly-lit shop windows, postponing as long as possible the moment when she must let herself in to the silent house.

As she approached the block where Matthew had his offices, she glanced up to see if any of his lights showed, as they had so often done of late. Yes, light was showing. She slowed her pace to a halt and stood pondering, then she made up her mind and went quickly in through the swing doors, into the deserted entrance hall.

She could hear someone rattling about, along a corridor; the caretaker, no doubt. She wasn’t anxious to encounter him; he was a dour character with a chronically gloomy view of the world. She slipped quietly up the stairs to the floor where Matthew had his offices.

CHAPTER 4

The weather continued mild. On Sunday afternoon, Verity Thorburn sat with Barry Fielding, another of her great uncle’s protegés, in the tea room attached to the Brentworth Art Gallery. They had just made the rounds of an exhibition of late-Victorian watercolours. Barry had cycled over from his boarding school, a mile or two outside Brentworth, to join her for the afternoon; they often went to concerts and exhibitions together.

Barry Fielding was the last of Bernard Dalton’s stray chicks; he was a year younger than Verity. Bernard had died twelve months after making himself responsible for Barry’s welfare. Barry was a tall, spindly lad, serious and studious. He was in the sixth form, working hard to gain a place at university, where he hoped to read medicine.

He and Verity were very close, they had been closer than a good many siblings since they were first introduced to each other seven years ago. They were now both wards of the same brace of guardians: Bernard Dalton’s widow, Grace – whom Verity always addressed as Aunt Grace – and Grace’s solicitor, son of the man, dead now for three years, who had been Bernard’s solicitor. Barry had begun by addressing his benefactors as Mr and Mrs Dalton but had gradually fallen into using the same terms as Verity; no one had ever offered any objection.

Barry no longer had any relatives of his own. His mother had died when he was six years old. His father had been one of Bernard Dalton’s employees, an ambitious and hard-working young man from a Cannonbridge council estate; he had looked after Barry with the help of neighbours. When Bernard Dalton retired, he sold the business and Fielding was one of a number of men who decided not to continue with the new employer but to make use of the generous severance money on offer, to set up in business on their own.

Things went well enough with Fielding for a year or two, until boom gave way to recession. He struggled along with mounting difficulty. He was a man who bottled things up, kept his worries to himself; he grew increasingly depressed.

One Saturday morning in the summer holidays when Barry was away at a school camp, Fielding drove down to the little resort on the north coast of Cornwall where he had spent his honeymoon. He booked in at a small bed and breakfast establishment. On Sunday morning he rose early and went out for a swim. He never came back.

He had left his clothes and towel neatly folded on the beach; there was no note. His body was washed up a few days later. There was only a small insurance policy on his life, written in trust for his son’s benefit, taken out at the time Fielding set up in business on his own. The inquest returned a verdict of death from drowning, with insufficient evidence to show the state of mind of the deceased.

At the time Bernard Dalton took over responsibility for Barry, Verity Thorburn had already been in his care for two years; he had sent her to the boarding school his daughter Esther had attended. Verity had been spending her school holidays with Esther and James, whose schoolboy sons were also home from boarding school.

Verity was far from happy at the Milroys’, though she did her best not to show it. Esther strove to be kind but the age gap between Verity and the boys was too great to be easily bridged. And Verity had remained for a considerable time in a withdrawn state, able to bear little in the way of teasing or boisterous games, liable to rush off to her room to give way to fits of silent weeping when a chance word or snatch of music touched some chord of memory. The only person to perceive the depth of her unhappiness was Nina Dalton. She couldn’t take Verity in the holidays herself as she was often out all day, endlessly busy.

But when Barry arrived on the scene, Nina put forward the idea that both youngsters might spend their holidays at Elmhurst, the Dalton family home, near Cannonbridge. Bernard and Grace readily agreed and the plan proved very successful. A strong friendship developed between the two orphans, working wonders for them both. They had the freedom of the grounds. The gardener, Gosling, an amiable man, made friends with them and his wife was endlessly kind.

Now, as they sat in the tea room, Barry talked of how his training was coming along for the sponsored half marathon. He was an ardent fundraiser for the new hospice, heading the sixth form committee at his school, masterminding the boys’ efforts.

Verity asked if he had done anything yet about Aunt Grace’s birthday present. It would be Grace Dalton’s seventieth birthday on Saturday, 7th March. Grace was set on holding a family gathering at Elmhurst that weekend; she had always greatly enjoyed such occasions. She had been in poor health for the past two years but her doctor believed the little celebration would do her good, provided care and moderation were exercised.

‘I’ve found a book I think she’ll like,’ Barry said. He’d come across it in an antiquarian bookseller’s: a photographic history of Cannonbridge, from the turn of the century to the late ‘thirties; it was handsomely bound, in excellent condition. ‘There are several photographs of the grammar school,’ he added. ‘Her father’s in one of them.’ Grace was Cannonbridge born and bred; her father had been senior history master at the grammar school.

‘She’ll love that,’ Verity responded with conviction. She was giving a watercolour of Elmhurst she had painted herself. ‘I’ll give you a lift over there that weekend,’ she added as they stood up from the tea table. She had her own little car, bought six months ago from money she’d come into on her eighteenth birthday, a legacy of no great size, from her great uncle.

They walked across to where Barry had left his bicycle; he had to get back to school. ‘The birthday weekend could easily be cancelled,’ Barry pointed out. ‘If Aunt Grace isn’t well enough.’

‘She’ll be well enough,’ Verity retorted. ‘She’ll live to be a hundred, heart or no heart, she’s as tough as old boots.’ Her face took on a brooding look. ‘There she is, sitting on all that money,’ she suddenly burst out. ‘Why should an old woman, no blood relation of mine, someone who just happened to marry my great uncle, have control over what I do?’

Barry mounted his bicycle. ‘She’s only doing her duty, doing what Uncle Bernard wanted.’ He gave her a straight look. ‘She’s been very good to both of us,’ he reminded her. ‘She’s always treated us fairly and kindly. And she doesn’t take decisions about us on her own, everything has to be agreed between her and Mr Purvis.’

Ah yes, Mr Purvis, Verity thought. Her expression lightened as she waved Barry off. She’d been forgetting Mr Purvis, the Dalton solicitor. She set off briskly for her little flat, in a surge of renewed optimism.

CHAPTER 5

Elmhurst, home of the Dalton family for over a century, stood in extensive grounds, sixty acres and more, on the outskirts of a village close to Cannonbridge. Over the last thirty years, developers had turned hungry eyes on the Elmhurst land, rapidly becoming a prime site as the town advanced steadily nearer. More than one entrepreneur, with plans for a high-class development in mind, had approached the local authority to discover its views. Planning permission would undoubtedly be granted and would be welcomed locally.

Bernard Dalton had received a number of offers. The figures mentioned rose as time went by, occasionally making spectacular leaps. But Bernard had never for one moment contemplated selling, and his widow was of precisely the same mind.

Grace Dalton had been a spinster of forty-six when she married Bernard. She had worked for the firm since leaving secretarial college; she had been Bernard’s personal assistant for several years. She had never had a boyfriend but kept house for her widowed schoolmaster father until his death, two years before her marriage.

Bernard had consulted neither his son nor his daughter when he contemplated remarrying; he would have been astonished at such a suggestion. Nor would his children have dared to voice any contrary opinion they might have felt.

The second marriage had been highly successful. Grace had continued to play a significant part in the affairs of the firm until Bernard’s retirement. She had also served as a magistrate and parish councillor and had taken an increasing interest in charitable work. But she had been forced to give up these activities after being laid low two years ago by a serious heart condition, complicated by other health factors. She had made a fairly good recovery but had suffered a setback the previous autumn. She had been strongly advised to take things very easily indeed in future, and was conscientiously obeying orders. ‘With care, she could live another two or three years,’ her doctor had recently told Matthew Dalton. ‘But, there again, she could go at any time.’

With the very quiet life Grace led nowadays, the Elmhurst staff, indoor and outdoor, was greatly reduced from what it had been in the days before Bernard’s retirement. The gardens, though far from neglected, were no longer kept up to the same high standards, everything now being geared to simplicity and ease of maintenance. The head gardener, Gosling, managed these days with the help of a couple of stalwart village lads; he even acted, when required, as Grace’s chauffeur, though that was rarely necessary now, when she went out so little.

Gosling’s father-in-law had looked after the Elmhurst gardens before him. He was an old man now, widowed, living with the Goslings in their cottage in the grounds. Mrs Gosling had been born in the cottage. She had worked in the house from leaving school, continuing after her marriage, whenever her family duties permitted. Now that her children had grown up and left home, she put in a few hours most days, as she was needed.

When it became clear to Grace two years ago what her future would be, she moved out of her first-floor bedroom and took over instead a downstairs room with glazed doors leading on to a patio, sheltered and secluded, where she could sit out in warm weather. A small adjoining room was converted into a bathroom. On this fine Monday morning, the February sun, though cheering to the spirits, was nowhere near strong enough to permit the pleasure of sitting out.

Shortly before noon, Dr Surridge called to see her. It was a measure of her sustained progress that he called now only once a week, putting her name by no means first on his list. Grace had a good deal of faith in Dr Surridge, a genial man in his middle fifties, with a calmly reassuring manner. He had been her doctor since taking over the practice three years ago, on the retirement of old Dr Wheatley.

Today Dr Surridge was well pleased with his patient. As they sat talking after his examination, Grace lay on her sofa, comfortably propped against a pile of cushions, the position she always adopted now when resting or sleeping. She still retained her air of command. Her steel-grey hair, long and thick as ever, was carefully dressed, high on her head; her blue eyes still sparkled, her pink and white skin was still soft and smooth.

‘I rang Dr Wheatley yesterday evening,’ Dr Surridge told her. ‘He’s all set to take over in ten days’ time.’ Dr Surridge and his wife were shortly flying off to Australia for three months. Their schoolteacher son had gone out there some time back on a year’s exchange. He had met an Australian girl, married her, decided to settle out there. Their first child had been born a few months ago.

Dr Wheatley had been happy to act as locum for Dr Surridge during shorter holidays in each of the three years since his retirement and was greatly looking forward to this longer spell. He was a childless widower whose work had been his whole life and he often found the long hours of unaccustomed leisure hung heavily.

And Grace was looking forward to seeing him again. He had been not only her doctor but her good friend, as he had been also to Bernard and Bernard’s first wife.

When Dr Surridge left Grace’s room at the end of his visit, he found the housekeeper, Dorothy Nevett, waiting for him in the hall, to ask how he had found Mrs Dalton. Dorothy was a native of Cannonbridge, a stockily-built spinster a few years from sixty. She was highly competent at her job, a woman to be reckoned with, as might be seen in her determined countenance, the stubborn set to her jaw. Her greying brown hair, short and straight, was cut without concession to fashion. She had worked at Elmhurst since leaving school, starting out as a kitchen maid in the time of Bernard’s first wife.

Dr Surridge gave her his report. He had a high regard for Miss Nevett’s nursing ability. She had helped to nurse the first Mrs Dalton, and later, Bernard, in his last illness. The doctor believed she could have taken up nursing professionally and been very successful at it.

‘Would it be all right if I went off for a day or two this coming weekend?’ Dorothy asked as she walked with him to the door. ‘I haven’t spoken about it yet to Mrs Dalton, I thought I’d check with you first. I feel I could do with a break. I thought of leaving on Friday morning and coming back Monday afternoon, I’d get back before supper. Mrs Gosling would be in charge – and of course, Jean would lend a hand.’ Jean Redfern was a girl of twenty who acted as a general help to Grace, carrying out a variety of duties. The tone in which Miss Nevett referred to her displayed a certain coolness.

No, Dr Surridge had no objection to Dorothy going off for a few days. ‘You’ll be going to the caravan?’ he asked chattily.

She nodded. ‘My friend will be there for the weekend.’ Dorothy owned a little caravan by the coast in Dorset, in conjunction with her lifelong friend, Alice Upjohn, a spinster like herself. The caravan was kept on a small farm. ‘It’s in a sheltered spot,’ she added. ‘It should be very pleasant down there just now, if the weather holds.’

As soon as the sound of the doctor’s departing car reached Grace Dalton’s ears, she touched a button on the console she had had installed when she moved into the room; it enabled her to summon assistance, day or night. One press for the housekeeper, two for Jean Redfern. She pressed it twice.

In a very short time, Jean came along with her customary swift, noiseless tread, from the garden room where she had been doing the flowers. A quiet girl with an unassuming manner, pretty enough in an everyday fashion, nothing in any way striking about her appearance. She was the illegitimate child of a woman named Redfern who had worked as a maid at Elmhurst from leaving school until five years ago when she had married an American widower she had met on holiday and had gone to live with him in the States.

Jean had come into the world as the result of a brief association between her mother and a travelling salesman with a roving eye and a persuasive tongue. When Jean’s mother – barely eighteen at the time – realized her predicament she tried to kill herself, but the attempt was frustrated by Dorothy Nevett who got the truth out of her and then went straight to her employers. The Daltons were very kind to the girl, who had no family to turn to. They kept her on and looked after her. She was at first determined on an abortion but they managed to talk her out of it. When the baby was born she wanted it put up for adoption but they persuaded her to keep it.

Jean was a well-behaved child, quiet and secretive. She lived in the servants’ quarters and was never in any way a nuisance in the household. She learned very early the useful skills of compliance and self-effacement; the Daltons were scarcely aware of her presence. As she got older, both her mother and Dorothy Nevett saw to it that she learned to perform little tasks about the place.

Bernard Dalton had been dead twelve months when Jean’s mother met her American and jumped at the chance to marry him. She asked Grace if she would allow Jean – then fifteen years old – to remain at Elmhurst until she finished her schooling; in return Jean would continue to do whatever she could in the way of household tasks. If Grace wished to employ her on a formal basis after she left school, well and good; if not, Jean could leave and look for employment elsewhere.

Grace readily agreed and Jean’s mother went blithely off to America. Grace saw to it that Jean kept in touch with her mother, but in spite of her efforts the correspondence soon diminished to an exchange of letters at Christmas. The marriage produced children Jean had seen only in very occasional photographs.

Grace did her best to persuade Jean to stay on at school, take some kind of training, but Jean wasn’t interested. Nor did she show any inclination to leave Elmhurst and go out into the world on her own. Before long, she had established herself as a very useful extra pair of hands about the house; she was always pleasant and willing.

Her position in the household began by degrees to alter. Grace started to make use of her in a more personal way, take greater interest in her; her footing became more like that of a companion help. This alteration found little favour in Dorothy Nevett’s eyes. Dorothy was a firm believer in knowing one’s place in life and sticking to it. She was deeply opposed to any attempt to turn sows’ ears into silk purses. And she was more than a little resentful, though she attempted not to show it, of what she saw as the girl’s favoured position in the household – a girl who had, after all, been born on the wrong side of the blanket.

In her last year at school, Jean had taken classes in shorthand and typing. When she left school she began to assist Grace with her correspondence, proving herself meticulously careful, reliable and conscientious. Grace wanted her to take a proper secretarial course to qualify her for a good post in the business world but Jean quietly and stubbornly resisted.

She had helped with nursing Grace over the last two years and here she had been a good deal less resistant when it was suggested she might take a course. She had been one of those Nina Dalton’s enthusiasm had swept into enrolling. Nina had found a place for her in a course held in Cannonbridge and she had acquitted herself very creditably.

There had been one brief period three years ago when Jean had caused Grace some real concern. She had met a boy two years older than herself, a good-looking drifter. She had fallen in love with him, wanted to marry him, there and then. Grace had put her foot down very firmly and the boy had drifted off elsewhere. There had never been another boyfriend.

Today, when Jean went along to Grace’s bedroom in answer to her summons, Grace gave her directions about various tasks, then she asked how Jean was getting on with her reading. Grace had drawn up an improving reading list and was encouraging Jean to plough her way through it.

As Jean was leaving the room again, Grace asked if Mrs Gosling was in the house and was told she was. Would Jean send her along?

Mrs Gosling came hurrying into the room a few minutes later, a cheerful, motherly woman with a ready smile. Grace asked how her quilting was progressing – Mrs Gosling was an expert quilter and at Grace’s suggestion had embarked on a set of cushion covers to be given as one of the prizes in a raffle in aid of the new hospice. She told Grace she was now working on the final cover and hoped to finish it in a couple of days. Grace was delighted; the draw was to take place next week. Grace had long been a supporter of the present Cannonbridge hospice and had helped from the start to raise funds for the new building, even in her invalid state, encouraging everyone connected with her to join in.

When Mrs Gosling had gone off again, Grace lay back and closed her eyes. She was feeling somewhat fatigued; time for a little rest before lunch. Inside a very few moments she had slipped into a pleasantly somnolent state in which the chirruping of the garden birds, the distant sounds of the household, mingled together in a lulling murmur.

By two-thirty lunch was over, the kitchen restored to order and Mrs Dalton settled down for her nap. Dorothy Nevett was up in her room on the top floor, enjoying an hour or two of leisure. She liked having her room up here, so beautifully private; she had had the whole floor to herself since the staff had been reduced. She paced about the room, her head full of the phone call she had received yesterday evening from her friend, Alice Upjohn.

Alice had lived next door to Dorothy when they were children; they had sat next to each other in school. When Alice was thirteen her father was transferred on promotion by his firm to a branch down south and the family was uprooted. But the two friends kept in regular touch, by letter in the early years but later spending holidays together.

When Alice left school, she began work as a clerk in a local government office; she continued living at home. The years slipped by. When she was forty-five her father died and her mother’s health soon afterwards began to deteriorate; she spent her final years in care. The house was sold to pay the nursing home fees and Alice moved into a small rented flat near the home; her mother lingered on for several years.

Alice had recently been offered early retirement in a cost-cutting exercise and had immediately accepted. She would be finishing work at the end of March; she would have a pension and a lump sum.

Dorothy and Alice had long shared a dream of buying a little cottage to retire to, in their favourite resort on the Dorset coast. As soon as Alice accepted the offer of early retirement, before saying a word to Dorothy, she contacted estate agents in the resort but quickly discovered that prices were way out of reach. Then she had an inspiration. She got on to every solicitor in the area and came at last upon what she was hoping for: a small cottage still to be disposed of at the tail-end of an estate, the executors ready to let the property go for a very reasonable sum if the transaction could be speedily put through. Alice’s lump sum, together with her savings and what she had inherited from her mother, would provide her half of the purchase price, as she had joyfully informed Dorothy over the phone yesterday evening. What about Dorothy? Could she provide her half?

Dorothy had her savings, she’d always been thrifty, but they were nowhere near enough. Then perhaps she could raise a mortgage for the balance, Alice suggested. ‘We’ll have to decide very quickly,’ Alice had gone on to say. ‘We’ll never get another chance like this.’ She had liked what she’d been told about the cottage but hadn’t yet had a chance to view it. ‘Try to get away for the weekend.’ she urged Dorothy over the phone. ‘If we find it’s what we want, you’ll have a few days after you get back to try to raise the money.’

Dorothy had approached Grace at lunchtime to ask if she could take a weekend break but she had said nothing about the cottage. Grace had readily assented.

Dorothy halted in her pacing to pick up from the top of her bureau a long frame holding three photographs of Alice: as a schoolgirl of thirteen, with dark curly hair and a shy smile; as a young woman, on their first holiday together; and the mature Alice, a few years ago, on another of their long succession of shared holidays, her figure almost as slender, her smile little changed.

She replaced the photograph, took down a jacket and left the room. She went quietly down the back stairs, out by a side door into the garden. No sign of Gosling. She spotted a garden lad at work in a greenhouse; he gave her a wave as she went by. She walked rapidly through the cultivated gardens, striking out for the fields and woods where she could stride about undisturbed, to think out her thoughts.

How would her bank or building society be likely to look upon an application for a mortgage from a woman of her age, in her financial situation? Two years ago, when Grace Dalton was sufficiently recovered to be able to look calmly at her future, she had sent for Dorothy and told her she was making a new will. It had long been understood between them that Dorothy would retire at sixty with a pension, in recognition of her long and faithful service. Grace had asked if Dorothy would now forget about leaving at sixty and would agree instead to remain with Grace until the end, whenever that might be. In return she would receive a larger pension, together with an additional benefit – a lump sum based on the total number of years she had worked at Elmhurst. If she agreed, she would receive these new entitlements, even if Grace were to die within a very short time.

Grace hadn’t been coy about mentioning actual figures and Dorothy’s eyes had opened wide when she heard them. She had needed no time to think the offer over and had at once accepted.

But that was two years ago now. Dorothy had believed then that Grace wouldn’t last out the twelvemonth. But the doctor spoke now of the possibility that she might with care live a few more years. Suppose she did manage to raise a mortgage and they did buy the cottage: how would Alice relish living there on her own for that length of time? She frowned in thought as she wheeled about in the dappled sunshine of the woodland.

How long, realistically, was Grace likely to live? That was undoubtedly the question.

Dusk was falling on Monday evening, a week later, as Dorothy reached the crossroads marking the final stage of her journey back from Dorset to Elmhurst. She usually enjoyed driving but today she had found the journey wearisome. It had been altogether a tiring weekend, with so much to weigh up and ponder.

The cottage had turned out to be even better than she had hoped; it would do them beautifully. Not too small, a decent stretch of garden, neglected now, but they could soon put that to rights. They had found a surveyor to go over the cottage and he had been able to assure them the property was structurally very sound. A few repairs would be needed but nothing too expensive. He foresaw no difficulty in raising a mortgage.

She frowned out through the windscreen as she drove through the light-splashed twilight. It was her own share of the purchase money that now presented the only remaining stumbling block. The solicitor had agreed to give them a week to reach a decision. Next Monday evening she was to ring Alice at 7.45, to tell her if she would or would not be able to raise the money. She had fixed on that precise time in order to be certain of making the call without being overheard. Mrs Dalton would be settled down after her supper, watching TV or reading, maybe listening to music or to the radio. Jean would either have gone out or be glued to the TV in the staff sitting room, absorbed in the latest instalment of her favourite soap opera.

First thing the following morning, Tuesday, Alice was to phone the solicitor, to give him a straight yes or no.

CHAPTER 6

At half past four on Wednesday afternoon, Matthew Dalton came out of the Brentworth office of the Inland Revenue, carrying a briefcase stuffed with papers. He set off back to his office with a light step and an air of profound relief. He’d managed to stave off disaster, for the present, at least. He well knew the euphoria would have drained away by morning but he intended to enjoy it while it lasted – take the evening off for once from his ceaseless juggling, spend it at home with Nina, a rare treat these days.

Shortly after six he bounded up the front steps of his house, a fine late-Georgian dwelling. Nina had always admired the property and Matthew had bought it a few years back, very near the peak of the market, as it later turned out; he had cheerfully taken out a massive mortgage. It hadn’t appeared an act of lunatic folly in those palmy days when it seemed the gravy train would thunder along full tilt for ever. And Nina had been overjoyed. She loved the house, loved living in it, often said as much. He intended to hang on to it for her if humanly possible.

Esther Milroy spent the late afternoon visiting one of her special patients at the Brentworth hospice, an elderly man with an overpowering need to recount the events of his long life. He asked little in the way of response, merely a willing listener. He occupied an out-of-the-way single room and she was able to stay with him for a good stretch of time without being disturbed. When at last he drifted into a peaceful sleep, she gathered up her things and went noiselessly from his bedside.

Six-forty-five. Too late to embark on a visit with another patient and she had in any case almost come to the end of her patience and cheerfulness. But ahead of her lay only the long empty evening at home. She cast about for some escape from the dreary prospect. She made her way quietly from the building, encountering no one in the maze of passages.

Twenty minutes later found her walking up the front steps of her brother’s house. Matthew and Nina were sitting at ease in the drawing room, enjoying a glass of sherry in anticipation of the delectable supper, almost ready. At the sound of the doorbell Matthew uttered a groan. ‘Who can that be?’ he exclaimed as he set down his glass. ‘I’ll get rid of them, whoever it is.’

But when he drew back the front door and saw Esther standing before him, gazing up at him like a lost dog, he could do no less than smile and invite her in. He gave Nina a glance of amused resignation as they entered the drawing room. Nina stood up at once, greeting her sister-in-law with warm friendliness. She sat Esther down, took her things and laid them on a nearby table. Matthew poured another glass of sherry.

A few minutes later, Esther reached for a carrier bag bearing the name of a high-class department store in the town. ‘I bought Grace’s birthday present this afternoon,’ she told Nina. ‘I don’t know if I’ve made the right choice. I’d be glad of your opinion.’

She took out a nightwear set of nightdress and matching negligée, unfolded them, held out each garment in turn for Nina’s inspection. ‘It’s a very good make.’ She indicated the label. ‘The material’s a wool and cotton mixture, nothing synthetic.’ White, printed with an all-over background pattern of rose-pink dots the size of a pinhead, scattered with delicate sprigs of rosebuds. A lavish use of frilled trimming, lace edging, satin ribbons. ‘You don’t think it’s too fussy?’ she asked with an anxious frown. ‘It was Verity chose this set. I happened to meet her in the street as I was going into the store. She had a couple of free periods from the college so she came along to help me choose. If you don’t think Grace would like it, I could take it back and get something else.’

‘It’s not at all too fussy,’ Nina assured her. ‘Grace will love it.’

‘I like the little rosebud sprays,’ Matthew said benignly. ‘It’s a very pretty pattern.’

Esther looked pleased and relieved. ‘I’ll keep it then,’ she decided, as she folded the garments away again. ‘I feel settled about it now.’

* * *

Early on Thursday morning, Dr Wheatley set out from his home in south-west Wales where he had chosen to retire. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man with a mild countenance, white wings of hair. He was very much looking forward to another stint as locum to his successor – and a good long stint, this time. He would greatly enjoy seeing his old patients, driving round his old stamping ground. He was particularly looking forward to seeing Grace Dalton again, his old, dear friend.

CHAPTER 7

On Thursday evening Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey came down the steps of the main Cannonbridge police station and walked across the forecourt. He was a big, solidly built man with massive shoulders, a fine head of thickly springing carroty hair, shrewd green eyes, craggy features dominated by a large, squashy nose.

He smiled to himself as he reached his car. It would be Monday morning before he was due to walk back up those steps again. He had recently come to the end of a long and gruelling case and was about to savour the luxury of a few days off.

But there could be no lying in bed tomorrow morning, he must get to the supermarket before the aisles got too crowded. There was never any way of knowing when he would find himself involved in another marathon stint, so his first thought in these breaks always was to restock his larder, invariably depleted at the close of a protracted assignment.

And he was up betimes next morning. In the supermarket he loaded his trolley with his old reliable standbys: cans of soup, spaghetti, baked beans, corned beef, ravioli, meatballs, stews. Anything that could be ready to eat in five minutes flat from the moment of putting his key into the front door, or even, in extreme fatigue, consumed cold, with a spoon, straight from the can. He had given up laying in a fancy assortment of frozen dishes. In hunger and exhaustion it was only too easy to make mistakes with a microwave, but, half dead or not, he always knew where he was with a can-opener.

Last of all, he added to his trolley a vast supply of that most essential of commodities: indigestion tablets.

He went through the check-out, stowed his purchases in the boot of his car and returned his trolley to its rightful place. As he was walking back to his car again, he spotted the Elmhurst station wagon turning into the car park, with Gosling at the wheel. Beside him, Dorothy Nevett sat staring out with a look of anxiety, as if lost in her own thoughts. Kelsey had known them both since the day he had first walked in through the Elmhurst gates as a boy of eight, a cadet in a church lads’ brigade, looking for any odd job within his powers, to earn a few shillings to swell the brigade funds.

He walked across to where Gosling was pulling up. They both caught sight of him as he approached, they looked pleased to see him. After some initial chat, he inquired after Mrs Dalton. Busy as he was these days, he called to see Grace at least once or twice a year. If anything to do with Elmhurst cropped up in the line of duty, he made a point of dealing with it himself. In Grace’s more active days, he had regularly come across her when she had served as a magistrate.

Dorothy told him about the birthday celebrations in two weeks’ time. ‘I’d like to call in to offer my good wishes,’ Kelsey said. ‘I’ll look in a day or two before. I’ll give you a ring first, to check it’s OK.’

‘And be sure to call in to see my father-in-law, while you’re about it,’ Gosling chipped in. ‘Nothing the old man would like better than a chat with you.’ Kelsey told him he wouldn’t forget.

‘How’s Jean Redfern these days?’ he went on to ask. He had been a young constable when Jean was born; he had seen her grow up. ‘I take it she’s still at Elmhurst?’

Dorothy gave a vigorous nod. ‘She certainly is.’ She slanted at the Chief a glance full of meaning. ‘That good for nothing boyfriend of hers is back. Shaun Chapman. I’ve seen him round the town. You remember the fuss there was a few years back, when Jean wanted to marry him.’

Indeed, the Chief did remember. Mrs Dalton had asked him to look into the lad’s background. He hadn’t come up with anything very terrible – or particularly reassuring. The Chapmans lived on a Cannonbridge council estate; Shaun was the eldest of several children. The father had never been in trouble with the law but neither could he be described as a pillar of society. He was fond of a drink, never held a job down for long. His wife did occasional cleaning.

‘I’m positive Jean’s seeing him again,’ Dorothy averred with conviction, ‘though she swears she isn’t. She’s going out more in the evenings, all dolled up. She says it’s with girlfriends, but I’ll lay good money it’s not.’

‘Does Mrs Dalton know she’s seeing Shaun?’ Kelsey asked.

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t said anything yet, I don’t want to worry her. But I may have to say something if it goes on, she’s got a right to know.’

Kelsey changed the subject. ‘How’s your friend Alice?’ he asked with a smile. Once, in his early days at Elmhurst, when Dorothy was a young woman, he’d been sent up to her room with a message and he’d noticed Alice’s photograph, prominently displayed. ‘That’s my friend, Alice Upjohn,’ Dorothy had informed him in a tone of possessive affection. She had shown him other photographs, she had told him about her friendship with Alice, going right back to infancy. From time to time after that he would inquire after Alice and Dorothy would reply with a fond smile, giving him the latest tit-bit of information, showing him the latest snapshots.

Today, however, Dorothy gave him no answering smile, supplied no tit-bit of news but merely replied: ‘She’s very well, thank you,’ and left it at that.

Not content with his supermarket foray, Chief Inspector Kelsey spent part of Saturday afternoon shopping for more personal items in a department store in the centre of Cannonbridge. He left the store just before five-thirty, bound for the car park.

As he made his way along the crowded pavement, a bus pulled up a little way ahead. He saw Jean Redfern jump off the bus into the arms of a young man waiting at the stop. The Chief was briefly halted by the press of folk. The pair turned his way and came past him, arms round each other’s waists, laughing, chatting; they didn’t see him.

Jean looked flushed and pretty. The young man was tall and loose-limbed, undeniably good-looking. Three years older than when the Chief had last set eyes on him, but there could be no mistaking his identity: Shaun Chapman.

On Monday evening, as time drew near for her phone call to Alice, Dorothy Nevett kept a watchful eye on the clock. She didn’t want to use the phone in the front hall, which was far from private, so at 7.40, with Mrs Dalton nicely settled after supper and Jean Redfern absorbed in her TV soap opera, she went silently up the back stairs to the room Jean used as an office, next door to her bedroom. She was careful to close the door properly behind her – she had said nothing to Jean about using the office.

The instant her watch showed 7.45, she tapped out Alice’s number. The receiver at the other end was snatched up at the first ring.

‘Dorothy?’ Alice’s voice was brittle with tension.

‘It’s all right,’ Dorothy swiftly reassured her. ‘You can tell the solicitor the answer’s yes. We’re definitely buying the cottage.’

When Chief Inspector Kelsey had been back at work a week, he managed to arrange himself a few hours off on the Tuesday morning. The weather was spring-like as he turned his car in through the tall wrought iron gates of Elmhurst. The grassy banks bordering the drive were thickly clustered with daffodils, starred with primroses.

He had taken time and care to select a suitable birthday card and gifts, deciding at last in favour of a decorative basket of fruit and a box of Grace’s favourite Elvas plums.

As he pulled up by the house, he saw Gosling walking along a path with his father-in-law; they waved a greeting. The old man was leaning on a stick but he looked hale enough, with a bright eye and a fresh complexion. Kelsey went across to speak to them, promising to call in at the cottage after his visit to Mrs Dalton.

He was admitted to the house by Mrs Gosling. Kelsey had always liked her. When he first walked in through the Elmhurst gates she had been a young girl, working in the house. She had always been kind and friendly, had often slipped him some little treat from the kitchen. He stood chatting to her now for a minute or two before she took him along to Mrs Dalton’s room.

Grace was pleased to see him. She had been working on a piece of embroidery but put it aside as he came in. She lay on the sofa, propped up against cushions. She looked handsome and elegant in the ruby-coloured velvet housecoat Nina and Matthew had given her for Christmas.

She received the Chief’s congratulations and good wishes, his card and gifts with expressions of pleasure. ‘It’s lovely to see old friends,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘We’ve known each other a good many years now.’ She looked back for a moment at the old days, when the Chief was a bare-kneed lad weeding beds and borders for his shilling, picking up windfalls in the orchard. Bernard Dalton’s first wife had still been alive in those days, still mistress of Elmhurst. Grace had been Bernard’s personal assistant, she was often at the house. The two women had been the same age, they had always been on good terms.

‘Not many old friends left now,’ Grace added with a tiny sigh. Over the last few years the old vicar had retired and gone elsewhere to live. There was no vicar now in the parish which had been amalgamated with others, currently in the care of a very much younger man, a very different kind of cleric from his predecessor. ‘I fear I don’t see eye to eye with him on many aspects of the church,’ Grace said with a regretful shake of her head. What with that and her poor state of health, she no longer attended services.

She still missed the old solicitor who had died three years ago but she was getting used to his son. She had been delighted to see Dr Wheatley again. ‘Not that I’ve anything against Dr Surridge,’ she was quick to add. ‘I have a lot of faith in him.’ She looked up at Kelsey. ‘It’s a hard lesson to learn, but you have to accept change, you can’t be continually harking back.’ She smiled slightly. ‘You can’t afford sadness as you get older, it’s a debilitating emotion.’

She rang through to the kitchen for coffee and Jean Redfern brought it along without delay. She looked as quiet and self-effacing as the Chief had always known her at Elmhurst – not at all the lively, smiling girl he had seen ten days ago, jumping off the bus into Shaun Chapman’s arms. He exchanged a few words with her; she replied in her usual demure fashion.

When she had gone and they sat drinking their coffee – decaffeinated for Grace – the Chief asked if Barry and Verity were expected at the birthday celebrations. Yes, they were, Grace was happy to tell him. They would be coming a little ahead of the others, the arrivals were being spaced as far as was practical, to avoid undue excitement for the invalid.

‘They’re both doing well at their studies,’ Grace commented. ‘Verity’s in a little flat of her own now, she seems happy there.’ When Verity had first decided to take a course at the college, it was Esther Milroy – at Grace’s request – who had arranged for Verity to share a flat with two older girls, also students at the college – sensible girls, known to Esther; both came from families active in the church Esther attended. They could be relied on to keep an eye on Verity. ‘But she’s got to the stage when she wants to be more independent,’ Grace observed. ‘I have to be pleased at that, when I remember what she was like when she first came here, so nervy and withdrawn.’

She glanced at the array of family photographs on a nearby side table. Among them was the face of her schoolmaster father who had been in his last years a senior history master when Kelsey attended the Cannonbridge Grammar School. The Chief remembered him with respect and affection; a scholarly man, dedicated to his subject, his profession. On the mantelshelf stood a handsome clock presented to him on his retirement; Kelsey had been among those who had subscribed to it. Some years later he had been among the former pupils who had attended his funeral.

On either side of the hearth hung a pair of watercolours Kelsey had always admired. The one on the left had belonged to Grace’s father; it showed the old part of Cannonbridge, including the grammar school. The other was a view of Elmhurst, painted shortly after the house was built.

Grace nodded at a photograph of two young men, very alike, with sharply intelligent good looks. ‘Esther’s sons can’t be here for my birthday, of course,’ she said on a note of regret. ‘They both came to see me when they were last at home. They’re doing exceptionally well. They’re ambitious and hard-working, like their father.’ She grimaced. ‘Just as well they didn’t take after their mother or they’d probably both be sitting around, waiting for someone to organize their lives.’ She half smiled. ‘If I’d had a daughter I’d have wanted her to be like Nina.’ She looked up at Kelsey. ‘She came from a very ordinary background, you know, though you’d never think it. Everything was done very quickly when Matthew decided to marry her. We never met her parents, she never produced them. She gave us to understand her father had retired early from business, because of ill health, and her mother was a shy woman; they went about very little.’ She moved her hand. ‘Bernard had discreet inquiries made. It turned out they were small shopkeepers, not retired at all, both of them working long hours for a modest living. Very respectable, decent, honest folk.’

She smiled slightly. ‘I never let on to Nina that we’d been so nosey. I could well understand why she’d said what she said. I liked her from the start, I always knew she was right for Matthew.’ She gave a decisive little nod. ‘Best thing he ever did, marrying Nina.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve often felt sorry for James, married to a nervy wife.’ She expelled a little breath. ‘Poor Esther, she does try so hard to please. She comes to see me regularly but I find her visits rather depressing, she will fuss over me.’

She went on to talk about the new hospice, how devotedly everyone was striving to raise money. The Chief told her he had every intention of seeing the foundation stone laid. ‘It will have to be something pretty cataclysmic to keep me away,’ he assured her.

‘It would be lovely if I could be there myself,’ she said. ‘But if not, I can listen to it on the local radio. And I can see it on regional TV in the evening.’

‘I’ll hope to see you at the ceremony then.’ The Chief glanced at the clock, mindful that he mustn’t tire her. They went on chatting for a little longer, then he rose to leave. He stooped to kiss her cheek.

‘If either one of us doesn’t make it to the ceremony,’ Grace said, ‘do come and see me again when you can.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Better not leave it too long.’

On Tuesday evening, when Grace had been settled down for the night, Dorothy Nevett was crossing the hall when the phone rang. She answered it and heard Alice’s voice. She stood listening intently, putting in a question or two. ‘You’re not to worry about it,’ she said at last. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll think of something.’ When she had replaced the receiver she stood looking down at the floor, frowning, thinking, thrusting out her lips. Then she moved slowly off through the hall and up the stairs to her room.

CHAPTER 8

On Wednesday morning, Dorothy Nevett, with Mrs Gosling in tow, busied herself with the preparation of bedrooms, in readiness for the weekend visitors. Esther and James would have the large, twin-bedded room at the front of the house, across the landing from the best bedroom – the one occupied by Mrs Dalton until her illness, and now no longer used. Nina would require only a single room as Matthew wouldn’t be staying the night. He would arrive towards the end of Saturday afternoon and would leave again after the birthday dinner, to drive back home. He was one of the organizers of a charity golf tournament to be held on the Sunday morning, in aid of the new hospice and would be playing in the tournament himself. James was also taking part in the tournament but as he wasn’t involved in the organizing and wouldn’t be playing in any of the early matches, he had no need to hurry back to Brentworth and would be staying the night at Elmhurst.

Verity could occupy a single room near Jean Redfern’s bedroom. There was never any need to ponder about where to put Barry: around the corner from Jean’s room, along a passage, in the snug little room he had always had, from the very first night he had ever slept at Elmhurst. He was fond of the room and looked on it by now as his own. He would have been astonished and dismayed to find some interloper installed in his place and himself banished to other quarters. Not that Dorothy would dream of playing any such trick on him. She had always had a soft spot for Barry who had been unfailingly considerate and well-mannered towards her, even as a young boy, stunned by his father’s death.

Verity was another matter entirely. She had certainly been subdued enough when she first came to Elmhurst but Dorothy had felt from the start there was a volcano simmering away deep down inside, waiting to erupt. She had always struck Dorothy as someone who might, under the thrust of events and emotions, be capable of almost anything.

At eleven-thirty on Thursday morning, Dr Wheatley called to check that all was well with Grace, in readiness for the birthday celebrations. He brought with him his card and birthday gift, a handsome Welsh knee-rug, gorgeously coloured.

During the afternoon, Jean washed and set Grace’s hair. She had grown used to the task over the last two years and took pride in achieving an ever more pleasing result. She had early on got Grace to agree to the purchase of a salon-type hairdryer and now went about the operation with almost professional expertise.

The first guests to arrive were Verity and Barry, on Friday afternoon. They went along separately to see Grace and have a chat, leaving an interval between their visits, mindful of the need not to tire her.

The early evening brought Esther on her own; James would be arriving on Saturday afternoon. She had a chat with Grace before supper. Later, when Verity and Barry were sitting together, absorbed in their own conversation, Esther wandered off to the old playroom, where so many hours of her childhood had been spent. The room was large, furnished with cupboards, shelves and drawers. It looked out over the garden, at the rear of the house.

The last children to use it had been Verity and Barry. The only use made of it in more recent years was as a green room at Christmas and other domestic festivals when it had always been an Elmhurst tradition to play charades, get up playlets or revue-type shows. Everyone, servants and all, had been pressed into these productions.

There had been none of these entertainments since Grace’s illness, but the big dressing-up chest was still there, with garments belonging to Daltons dead and gone. A roomy cupboard still housed an assortment of items useful as props.

Esther opened the cupboard and glanced over the shelves. She lifted the lid of the chest, fingered the contents. She crossed to the rows of bookshelves. One shelf held old bound copies of magazines. She took down a volume and went over to a window seat. She sat slowly turning the pages, sunk in thought.

* * *

Saturday morning was bright and calm, crisply invigorating. After an early breakfast, Matthew Dalton went off to his office. Nina put her bag in her car for the overnight stay at Elmhurst and drove over to the Dalton cottage. She wore old casual clothing; her hair was tied up in a scarf, in readiness for whatever jobs might present themselves, indoors or out.

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