

Set in 1931, Edith Horton is a former VAD who finds herself not only struggling with her inner demons, but with the presence of evil in her village in the Yorkshire Dales. Her brother is suspected of murdering an elderly wealthy widow, and sins of the past have echoes in her life and the lives of those close to her.

TREATED AS MURDER

Noreen Wainwright

Tirgearr Publishing

Author Copyright 2014 Noreen Wainwright

Cover Art: EJR Digital Art - http://ejrdigitalart.com

Editor: Sharon Pickrel

Proofreader: Barbara Whary

A Smashwords Edition

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEDICATION

To Brian and my parents

TREATED AS MURDER

Noreen Wainwright

1916

It was all wrong, a servant bringing such a thing as this on a silver plate.

She knew, in those few seconds of suspended time, before she opened it what it was. Nothing would ever be the same again.

And then she read the words, and did know. In an eerie echo of death, she did feel as though she stepped aside from her body. She, with an almost cold detachment, witnessed herself walk across the hall and into her sitting room.

No one knew, but her and then her husband.

* * *

But soon, as is the way in these country places, everyone knew. The other woman heard it in the shop. The Sowerby sisters served here, and gossip rose and fell and whispered amongst the flour and loose biscuits, the mops, buckets, carbolic soap, tea and stamps. She slipped out without her shopping, holding back the howl of anguish and lurched her way home.

The door to the empty house shut tight behind her. She slid to the floor and doubled over, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms over eyes, and wailed at her loss.

1931

There. She ticked the name off her list. The handwriting on the page was as devoid of any defining characteristics as she could make it. She had written the words in blunt, fat capitals. She re-read the letter, and smiled. Not perfect, but it would do. The main thing was the feeling she had now, satiated, warm, and at peace. The trouble was the feeling would not last.

But she was keeping a tight check on herself. One letter a fortnight was the bargain she had made. With whom she wasn't sure. Herself? God? She had read somewhere about anonymous letter writers who cut letters out of magazines and papers and glued them to the page. There were also others, apparently, who took journeys to all sorts of different places, so the postmarks would confuse. Yet, all that seemed too elaborate. It would be cheating.

If she was discovered? It would, at least be fair and square. She took precautions, but nothing excessive. After all, this was never meant to be safe, was it? She had left the need for safety behind her years ago. There was only one good thing that came from no longer caring, and that was the liberation of not needing to be perpetually on your guard

Finding things out had been heart hammering at the beginning, now it was second nature. She had turned herself into a trained observer. It was a truly fascinating occupation. Immersion in the lives of others had been the only medicine that finally managed to soothe her jangled nerves. Wielding the power of knowledge, had been a bit of payback for the bad hand she had been dealt.

Chapter 1

"Describe how you are feeling, Miss Horton."

Edith, almost imperceptibly, shook her head. She didn't want to be rude, but she could not do what the kind doctor wanted. Was it the words she didn't have or the energy? Then, the doctor rested a hand just for a few seconds on her arm, on the sleeve of the blue cardigan she knitted last winter.

She took a deep breath as though to inhale the smell of Dr. Uxbridge, a mix of pipe smoke and a strong-smelling soap. The smell was familiar. Archie used something similar in his surgery.

"We'll get you well again, Miss Horton. Put yourself into our hands and we'll get you right. I'll see you again sometime in the next few days." He nodded at the nurse. "Thank you, Sister Baker. You can take Miss Horton back to her room, now."

Edith shuffled, the way other women in this place shuffled. It must be the tablets. Maybe she would ask Archie.

"Soon time for your medication, dear, and then you can have a nice rest. You said you were having a visitor tonight?"

Had she said that? She had no recollection. She cleared her throat; her voice was getting rusty from lack of use. She was only able to say a few words and, and they came out in little above a whisper.

"My friend...my friend, Julia."

"And that nice brother of yours? The doctor? Is he coming?"

It seemed Archie was popular with the nurses.

"I don't know." Why wouldn't the nurse go away? The tiredness was back again the sudden, compelling sleepiness that overtook her since her breakdown. That's what people called it, her breakdown. She recalled very little about it, about what led to her being here. She remembered noise, Archie being angry with her, and the police had been there. Something bad happened, but she couldn't remember—her head felt fuzzy.

Waking up had changed. Waking up had been normal, now it wasn't. Now, it was like springing straight from unconsciousness, with no nice, dreamy, cosy bit in between sleep and life. Now, there was an emerging from somewhere dark, where strong hands were trying to keep you there.

And then there was the realization of where she was. It had always been referred to as St. Bride's or by the country people as "th' big house." Now, for ever more, she would be Edith Horton, who had spent time in th' big house.

Unless she went away. Left Ellbeck and went back to nursing again. But the war, all that life was over now, had been over a long time. Maybe she could even train properly as a hospital nurse.

Don't be silly, she told herself. They would never have you now, not after this.

"Edie?"

She must have drifted off again, because something was dragging her unwillingly back into life. Except this time, there was another hand, one on her arm, tapping lightly. "Come on old girl, ain't you goin' to chew the fat with yer ole mucker."

A smile crept over Edith's face. "Julia," she said.

They had done this after shifts at Tommy's, lapsing into cockney to try to cheer themselves up.

Well, that and the cocktails and dancing.

She took Julia in and saw that her friend looked much as she usually did, golden-red hair, tied back, a floral dress and an old, drooping cardigan that made her look as if she would be more at home in the garden than by a hospital bedside.

"Your cardigan." Edith pulled a face, though it was difficult because even her skin felt stiff.

"Oh, ducks, you must be getting better, if you're criticising my clothes." Without any warning at all, tears began to race each other down Edith's face.

Julia looked so shocked. She rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief and came to put an arm around Edith. "Come on, old girl...what's all this. Oh, don't darling. Or, actually, yes, maybe that's what you need, a good cry. Do you want me to fetch a nurse?"

She shook her head. "No nurse, please. They might see it as a backwards step. Keep me in here even longer. How long have I been here now, Julia?" At least the tears have stopped.

"You can't remember? I suppose it's not surprising. Two weeks, now. They sedated you heavily for the first five days or so.

Edith had the oddest feeling. It was as though she was hearing a story about a stranger.

Julia hesitated for a moment and looked into Edith's face.

"Are you sure you want to hear all this? Isn't it going to upset you?

"No, I need to hear it, please, Julia."

"You were asleep more or less all the time. Archie visited. They let me and your wonderful Mrs. Braithwaite look in. But, I don't think you were conscious of any of us."

Julia, as if suddenly restless went to the window, looked out and turned back after a few seconds.

"Is Archie okay? I take it he has been in, in the last few days?"

Edith shook her head. "He's not all right, no. Being suspected of murdering one of your patients for gain is never a good thing to happen to a doctor, is it?"

"But, it's ludicrous, Edie. I don't believe it for one minute. Lots of old ladies leave a bequest to a good doctor. There is no real evidence that she was murdered. What are they basing their suspicions on? Anonymous letters? Bound to be the workings of a disturbed mind. Even Giles says that. If a person had any proof of something like that, he or she would come out of the woodwork. It is nothing but troublemaking. You do know that, Edie, don't you?"

Edith nodded her head and said a silent prayer that it was the case—the thing was with the way her mind had recently played tricks on her, she could not be sure of anything.

* * *

The lack of privacy was the worst thing of all. She had been brought up to be modest. Over time, this became as much a part of her as her limbs or her heart. She hated the closeness of other bodies...the smells, the sounds and more than anything, the sights. All the other women seemed pale and she now had that same unhealthy look about her, milk-white.

Saturday mornings, the women lined up with a towel, each. There were two baths in each of the big bathrooms and there, supervised in case they took it into their heads to do "anything silly," they washed in a bath containing about six inches of water. She did think it wouldn't have hurt to put a screen up between the two naked women, but it probably didn't even occur to the warders.

* * *

Archie Horton knew Chief Inspector Greene was looking at his hands, had seen him glance at them gripping his chair. He consciously relaxed his body, in the way he sometimes recommended to his more tense patients.

"You seem nervous, Dr. Horton. Are you sure there is nothing you want to tell us? You know the real cause of Mrs. Butler's death will probably soon be revealed anyway, especially if we find what we are looking for when her body is exhumed."

"And you are doing that on the basis of what? Some anonymous letters? I am a qualified doctor, as you know. Have been for some considerable time. I've come across this phenomenon before. Some pathetic person, with a grievance against the world. Do you really have the power to do something as...as disturbing as this on the basis of an anonymous letter?"

"More than one, Dr. Horton. These letters have been circulating around Ellbeck and the surrounding dales. In itself, granted, it doesn't amount to evidence—especially as I say, these letters have been sent to several people that we know of—some of what's in them is scurrilous nonsense, some does seem to have some basis in truth. None of the letters that have come to light allude to anything as serious as the letter we had about Mrs. Butler."

Archie shook his head.

"I give up arguing with you, Inspector. If you have grounds to arrest me, go ahead. Otherwise, you must realise that I'm a busy man."

"That's not what I hear doctor. Rumour has it that your surgery is quiet, with patients rushing off to Doctor Maybury."

Archie swore softly, "Is that surprising? With you and your sergeant calling here at depressingly regular intervals," he nodded in the direction of Sergeant Brown, who had cultivated a deadpan expression and was testing it out now. That and his virtually monosyllabic utterances.

"Right, Dr. Horton. We'll get out of your way. We'll no doubt see you again soon." He raised an eyebrow, dark and bushy. "Unless, that is, you have anything you'd like to confide in us?"

Archie did not answer. He stood up, desperate to be rid of the two policemen.

"I'm sorry to hear about your sister," said the inspector. "What is it? A complete breakdown, that's what I hear, poor woman."

"My sister is recovering, Inspector. Like many others, she suffered loss in the war. She also saw things no one should ever see in her Voluntary Aid Detachment work, both in France and back here in the hospital, St. Thomas. No doubt it plays on her mind, puts her under strain

The inspector adopted a perplexed look. "The war has been over, what twelve, thirteen years now Doctor? Rather strange, isn't it, your poor sister's breakdown, after all this time? Bit of a coincidence what with all this business with the letters."

A rage such as he had not experienced in years gripped Archie and he took one step towards the inspector's smirking face, His fist closed, involuntarily. Everything stood still, as if they were all part of a tableau. Then there was a soft knock on the door. Mrs. Braithwaite entered and asked if anyone wanted any more tea.

She'd brought some normality back into the situation, with the simple domesticity of her apron-clad figure and her query.

The policemen refused further refreshment and left, with barely another word.

"Thank you, Mrs. Braithwaite, and I'm sorry you've been inconvenienced, yet again." There was so much more he would have liked to say, things he would like to have asked her. She did spend a considerable time with Edith. But, where did one start? And he didn't want to put the poor woman under pressure. From what Edith had said and others hinted, Archie gathered not all was roses around the door at home with her ex-serviceman husband.

She quietly stacked the plates and cups. "Doctor Horton. It's my half-day off tomorrow. Would it be in order for me to drop in to see Miss Horton? She wasn't really herself the last time I visited. I think they had sedated her."

"Please, do, Mrs. Braithwaite. It's very good of you."

She bowed her head slightly.

He wanted her to stay. As soon as she left the house, he would hit the single malt. He wanted to stay away from it as long as possible.

* * *

Mrs. Arbuthnot reached a hand into the pocket of her apron and touched the letter—that evil letter. It had come in yesterday's post and she'd honestly thought she would have a heart attack as she read the words. She had put a nip of brandy in her cup of tea to steady her.

She couldn't become ill because if she did, what was going to happen to Arthur? He was barely hanging on as it was. He had never got over the loss of the two boys in the war. How could he? How could she? But they must keep up appearances, and they still had Helena. Dorothea's hand curled once more around the letter in her pocket. Helena.

* * *

I've done something wrong.

Edith sat with a detective novel in her lap. She would read it soon, and maybe find some solace in its pages. Maybe that was the problem? Maybe she sought solace in the wrong things, buried things instead of facing them.

That's what some of these psychiatrists were beginning to argue now. At least some of them were realizing with those poor souls who had suffered shell shock, that stiffening the sinews and carrying on didn't do the trick. She and Archie had spoken about it. He was interested in that sort of thing—in the mind.

"Why didn't you go in for it, then Archie?" she'd asked him once.

He'd tapped his pipe and shook his head. "Not for me, Edith. Too much thinking, done enough of that. Let me get on with the arthritis and the sprained ankles. I'll leave the trick cycling to the other chaps.

* * *

The local mental hospital had been the nice term for it when she had been a child. The less kind one had been the loony bin. Her parents had sometimes referred to it in an almost whisper. It was a secret place, full of darkness, enough to inspire fear and maybe, fascination. She and her friend, Alice, had been obsessed with the place for a time, when they were thirteen. They had frightened each other about what it would be like if they ran into an escaped lunatic, on the country lanes.

"He would likely be wearing a strait jacket," said Alice.

"What's that?" she'd asked.

But, Alice just shrugged. "I don't know, something with locks on I suppose, and maybe it holds their arms in place. I bet that's it, I bet it holds their arms out in front of them, so they can't do anything, like strangling a person, or summat."

"Well, we need to look out for a man with staring eyes and his arms held straight out in front of him then?"

"At least you'd see him coming," Alice said. It had all seemed very funny, then, and it had seemed brave and daring to joke about it.

* * *

"So how is Edith?" Giles asked, handing Julia a cigarette. Bea was in bed, and the two boys back now in their own world of boarding school, games, masters, and boyish intrigues.

"You know..." she began.

He tutted. "No, I do not know," he snapped, impatiently. "That's why I asked."

And that's what has changed. It was something Julia couldn't have put into words to anyone else, even if she'd wanted to. It was the something that had changed between them, the ability to tune into each other, tune into the little cues.

Now, she had to watch every word she said, or he would pick up on them—use them as weapons. Why are you so angry with me, Giles? She asked it silently. She didn't want to start a row and she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

"Edith was a bit better, I thought. Not so sedated, still far from well, poor darling."

"Yes, well, funny notions they get, these single women...of a certain age...missed opportunities, that sort of thing."

Julia stared at him, furious, but unable to express it. When had he become so horribly smug and spiteful?

* * *

Edith walked in the spreading gardens of the hospital. Of course, a nurse wasn't far away. They didn't quite trust her, yet. They could. She wasn't going to do away with herself, and she wasn't going to run off. Where would she go?

They called these places asylums, which meant places of safety. There was a wooden bench, pink paint peeling a little, in the shade of an oak tree, near a walled garden. She could see the canes and smell an earthy mix of soil and growing onions.

Edith sat, hands on her lap. She had a meeting later with Dr. Uxbridge. She must try to get the better of her nerves. It was rude to sit in silence while the poor man struggled to help.

She fought the feelings of guilt plaguing her more and more. Why had she given way, like this when others had suffered more? Look at Mr. and Mrs. Arbuthnot in the village. Rumour had it he drank. But what about Dorothea? You met her in the village. She was always well turned out, smiling and interested in what you were doing. Whereas she, Edith, without chick or child to worry about, let alone to lose, had given way like this.

One particular incident haunted her now as it had haunted her down the years, coming into her mind, intruding, every time she felt low. She had visited Alastair's mother, soon...too soon, after the killed in action, news. Alastair's mother, bowed in grief, had been so pleased to have her there, insisted on showing her things, including the unbearable copy of the list of belongings found on Alastair's body. One metal watch, one notebook, letter, photos, one postcard, one prayer book. Sometime later, she had seen the words of Siegfried Sasson's...

"They leave their trenches, going over the top

While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists"

Edith remembered the hot helplessness of the paper in her hand and Alastair's mother in her sitting room. She tried to be still now, but could not. She walked back into the asylum for her meeting with Dr. Uxbridge.

* * *

She knew now about strait jackets, horrible white things that strapped your arms—not straight out, but close to your body so you were trussed up and helpless like a wild animal. One way or another, they would subdue you. She also knew the padded cell, where there was nothing to distract you from the horror inside of you. Where the only sort of merciful release was exhaustion.

Eventually, the screams and the wails stopped, and with tiredness and medicine, you slept. Not a refreshing, nice sleep, but a half-dead, heavy unconsciousness hard to drag yourself out of. That was all in the past. She had left the darkest of the dark days behind. She'd thawed out of her frozen state and reformed, more malleable. She didn't know whether that was because it made life a lot easier, or whether it was because of a new doctor, Doctor Webster who had come to this place some years ago now.

Many of the other doctors and nurses didn't like him. He wanted to change things, and though they did a grim job, one most people would run a mile from, in some ways, they had it cosy, too. There was the odd bit of trouble, but everyone knew who was in charge and that kept things nice and regular and safe.

This Dr. Webster began to question the cold baths and the sleeping treatment and a lot of other things too. Most worryingly, he began to listen to what the patients or at least to those still capable of holding any sort of a conversation said.

Chapter 2

Odd, these pathology men. In Greene's view, well, there had to be something very peculiar about spending your time with the dead. Police did from time to time. But not morning, noon and night like Dr. Inglethorpe, the county's pathologist. "So, no doubt then?"

"No room for doubt." Inglethorpe answered. "The amount of digitalis is well beyond the therapeutic levels, more even than a cumulative effect of the prescribed dose."

Greene nodded and began to get up from the old-fashioned carver chair in Inglethorpe's office.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but digitalis in its medicinal form slows down and steadies the heart?"

Inglethorpe nodded. "Yes, given for an irregular heartbeat. Too much of it will stop the heart."

"And what would be the most likely way it could be given to an elderly lady, say?"

Inglethorpe shrugged and played with a fountain pen, turning it on the blotting pad in front of him. "Well, it's given in tablet form, usually in the morning. Did she have a live-in nurse? The doctor usually recommends that someone check the patient's pulse before administering the drug. If it is lower than sixty beats a minute, the next dose should be omitted. I suppose it could be ground up. Say, if it was given in a strong-tasting or a very sweet drink, it wouldn't be easy at all to detect."

Greene left the office in a brown study, oblivious of the building, the people he passed, or the weather as he went to his car. He could see ground tablets, see a hand deliberately handing the elderly woman a drink. Waiting for her heart to stop.

* * *

"Brown, I want to drop in at the doctor's again, this evening, round the time he finishes for the evening, just as he is thinking about a stiffener and a pipe full of baccy. Also, take a constable and get out there today, to the village. Talk to the folks of Ellbeck and find out exactly what the set-up at Mrs. Butler's House was. Who worked there, who lived in and so on. Someone saw the old dear off and we need to stop him or her, before anyone else meets an untimely end.

"I don't trust that doctor, not as far as I could bloody throw him. But we need something else to nail him and we need to watch our step. These medicos are not without power and influence. Yes, the beggars stick up for each other and throw their noble calling at your head, if you dare to question them. Wonder what Horton did in the war?"

Sergeant Brown gave a slight shake of his head, to indicate he didn't know. He knew his superior officer well enough to know it wasn't an opinion he wanted, as much as a sounding board.

* * *

"I brought you a few bits and pieces in, Miss Edith...and look," she indicated a brown paper bag.

"A few of your favourites, the ginger ones—made a batch today."

Once again, Edith had no control over the tears that welled up. But, I can stop it. She clenched her fists. She needed to get a grip on her emotions. What had happened to the tough young VAD she had once been? She had rarely shed tears; it would have been self-indulgent. So what had happened to her now?

"Is he eating, Archie, I mean?" She couldn't help herself, knew he was a grown man, and wouldn't appreciate her clucking over him like a mother hen.

Mrs. Braithwaite looked at her, hesitated. Edith could read her mind. She's wondering how much reality I can take.

"He's turned in on 'isself a bit, like, Miss Edith. Hasn't got much to say. And that police inspector chap came round again yesterday." She lifted the cloth shopping bag onto her lap and began smoothing it. Edith sighed. She should be at home. She should be supporting him, not in here. She was better now, anyway, wasn't she? She dared ask a further question. "I don't suppose there's been a telephone call or anything like that..."

"From Mr. Matthew?" Mrs. Braithwaite helped her. "I'm afraid not, Miss Edith."

She had tested it out, like grinding a sore tooth. It still hurt like hell. Mrs. Braithwaite was fumbling now in her bag, kind woman, giving Edith a moment.

"I nearly forgot, Miss Edith. I called at the library, got you two new detective stories. I might borrow them myself, when you've finished. Pass these autumn nights."

Edith made a huge effort and smiled against the low feeling in the pit of her stomach and in her heart. "How are things at home, your own home, I mean?" As soon as the words were out, she knew it wasn't the right thing to ask.

A tight line of strain appeared all around Mrs. Braithwaite's mouth and she folded the strap of the bag, into a concertina shape." "Not so great. Miss Edith, but God is good. We have us 'ealth and Cathy is happy in the shop with the Misses Sowerby."

It gave Edith something to think about, even if it wasn't cheerful. Mrs. Braithwaite's husband is a smarmy lout, one of those who would have been no great loss to anyone had he been killed in place of any one of the decent men who hadn't survived, men like Alastair or the Arbuthnot boys.

She pulled her thoughts sharply away. She couldn't play God or blame Him. What did she know about anything? Clearly, not even enough to keep her out of a place like this.

* * *

It took her a long time to learn how to behave herself in that place. She was demented when they first brought her in. Her heart and soul had been ripped away from her and she didn't know what she should do to try and cling to life—so she gave up. She did all the things women should never do-ladies should be seen and not heard. All of that decorum went for nothing.

She screamed and cursed—a litany of words she must have heard somewhere, though she didn't even know she knew some of them. She supposed they must have been dredged deep from her cesspit of a mind—because that's what her mind must have been by this stage. It was as if all the niceties had been stripped away, along with her heart and her soul. It was terrifying losing control like this. But it felt free, too.

Then Dr. Webster came and things slowly changed. He didn't say many words, but somehow the words changed everything. The most important thing he said to her was, "You are not to blame." No one had ever said those words to her before in her life and it made all the difference in the world.

* * *

"You'd know all about most of the local folk, in the village like and roundabouts?"

Sergeant Brown leaned back on the kitchen chair and carefully picked up the delicate china cup, after casually asking the question. This was a bit more like it, out from under old Greene's nose. Yes, tea and a big slice of dark, rich fruitcake. Not a bad job this, sometimes.

One of the maiden ladies began to speak. At least Sergeant Brown supposed they were maiden ladies. He coughed. For goodness sake, he had forgotten their names. Well, it was Prudence and Marjorie, but which was which?

"Both of them came in here from time to time, didn't they Marjorie?" Good, he had them now. Marjorie was the one with the glasses on a chain, and the mix of colours and vast, floating, highly coloured garments. The one speaking, Prudence, was for all the world like Miss Pierce, his old teacher-crisp, white blouse, neat and tailored costumes in grey, navy blue and black.

"Yes, that's right. Not so much Mrs. Butler, latterly. Poor woman wasn't in the best of health. But that companion woman, Esther, rather a quiet woman, she came regularly a couple of times a week, wouldn't you say?"

"And where has she gone now, this companion?"

"Well, the vicar, the Reverend Wilkes sorted her out. As luck would have it, there was another old lady...I should say there is another elderly lady, Miss Alicia Horton, who was looking for someone, a companion. Where she lives, you see, off the beaten track—hard to keep anyone living-in, particularly the younger ones. So, Esther Kirk suited."

"Miss Horton, would she be?"

Prudence nodded. "Yes, she's the doctor's aunt and poor Miss Edith's. Both heads shook in unison. "Such a terrible shame," said Marjorie, with another shake of the head.

Sergeant Brown took his time over the niceties, praising the cake and thanking them for the tea. He got up, retrieved his hat, and made his way to the door dividing the shop from living area. "Tell me, with the post office here and customers coming and going, you're bound to have heard something about these anonymous letters going around?" The atmosphere in the room changed.

The atmosphere in the room changed. It was as if he'd sworn, shouted out a stream of obscenities.

"We know nothing at all about that sort of thing, Sergeant. We don't encourage gossip. As you can imagine, in a village shop, running a village shop, I should say, not to mention His Majesty's Royal Mail, discretion is essential. Our customers know better than to spread gossip, Marjorie and I would give them short shrift were they to attempt it."

Prudence had flushed. It suited her; put a bit of fire into her. Marjorie began stacking china in a bustling way.

"Thanks very much for your help, ladies. I'll leave you in peace. If there is anything that either of you remember..."

Prudence cut him short.

"As we said, Sergeant, my sister and I do not deal in gossip and speculation."

Her face was set, the expression closed.

"Ah, Miss," he hailed the young girl, busy dusting a shelf behind the counter.

She jumped. She hadn't heard him come through from the back. She would be tuned-in only to the sound of the shop doorbell.

She turned, smiled, put down her duster, and gave her hands a quick wipe on the voluminous white apron that almost hid the gingham frock. "Sorry, sir, I mean...erm...officer. I didn't see you there. Can I help you?"

"I'll have ten Gold Flake, Flake, please Miss. It's Cathy, isn't it? Cathy Braithwaite? Have you worked here, long?"

Cathy smiled, an open guileless smile, but Billy Brown, though he didn't credit himself as the most sensitive of men, thought he saw a sadness there.

"About a year now. It's good they're ever so nice to work for, the Miss Sowerby's."

"And your mam and dad, are they working local too?"

A shadow crossed her face. "Me mam works, as 'ousekeeper for Miss Edith Horton, and her brother, the doctor. Me dad works for the Arbuthnots, and John, that's my brother, he's still at school, for time being anyway, though dad says, it's time 'e..."

"Cathy, get on with serving the sergeant, there's a good girl. Miss Marjorie and I want to run through a few things with you, for next Thursday."

She looked at the sergeant. "My sister and I have an appointment in Harrogate next week, so Cathy will have sole charge. We have every confidence in her. But there's a lot to tell her."

Cathy gave him his change and he took his cue to leave.

* * *

"A visitor for you, Edith."

She was sitting in the dayroom helping a sad, older lady with her knitting. Unable to concentrate on her reading, and unwilling to do any more thinking, she had come in here, for what purpose she knew not. It wasn't as though she really, deep down, had grasped she was a patient. She could imagine Archie's take on it. "Still doing your nursing bit, eh Edie?" He would say it a bit sarcastically.

She had failed, not only in her own eyes, but also in his.

"We've put him in your room," said the nurse. "Bit more private there. Edith glanced quickly round the dayroom, heavy with cigarette smoke and sadness.

To Edith's surprise it wasn't Archie at all standing looking out the window. It was, possibly the last person she expected to see...Henry Wilkes, vicar of Ellbeck and the surrounding dale.

Her heart quickened and the flight or fight mechanism took hold. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself. He's a friend, no matter what sort of a fool I made of myself the last time we met. It's his job. He will be used to seeing people in extreme states.

She swallowed, went forward, and put her hand out awkwardly.

But he took her hand instead, in both of hers. "How are you, Edith? Well, maybe I don't need to ask, you look a lot better."

"It's the tablets they are giving me," she tried to joke, but perhaps it didn't quite come off.

* * *

They were right, to bring her into this place. She never would have believed that before now. There was a danger she could have harmed herself. They were worried too, that she might harm him. But, she would never have done that. She walked away from the place where she was living, far away, when the fever had come on her.

She had felt that it was like a fever—a rush of heat, all across her body and a feeling she was in a bubble, mouths were opening and closing and sounds were outside somewhere, all merging together, all making no sense. She had to get away, so she gave them all the slip.

The river drew her. She kept thinking about it...the darkness, the cold. The cold would be awful. But for how long? She told herself she wouldn't feel it for long. She would be away from this feeling, the dark, the heat, and the feeling of being in a bubble.

And, he would be better off. Then nobody could have convinced her any different—he would be better off. It was the only thing she could do for him.

Chapter 3

Inspector Greene looked at the woman sitting in the kitchen chair. She had offered him a cup of tea in a monotone and he accepted, as much as anything else to observe her in motion. She reminded him, of that housekeeper in a film his wife had dragged him to Harrogate to see, one of those frightening pictures that women seemed to like so they could act all terrified. He had enough of that type of thing in the daytime, thank you very much. Not that Ellbeck was a den of iniquity, but all the same, in this job, you did see all sorts.

What on earth was Miss Horton, who had struck him as a lively, cheerful soul doing with this long drink of cold water living in the house? It was just the pair of them too, with other domestic help coming in only during the day.

"You used to work for Mrs. Butler?"

He hadn't given her a chance to do anything other than hand him the cup and saucer, before launching into his questions.

"Yes, for seven years, until her death. I found myself out of a job. I had no wish to leave the dales, and the Reverend Wilkes was kind enough to recommend me to Miss Horton."

She spoke quite formally, and still in that dull tone. However, she was proving more forthcoming than he had expected. "What kind of lady was Mrs. Butler? Easy to get along with, and all that? You were a companion, I believe?"

"Yes, she had other domestic staff. It was a big house to run. But, Mrs. Butler was a widow and not in the best of health. I am not a trained hospital nurse, Inspector, but I have had a lot of previous experience looking after elderly people in poor health. As to the type of employer she was, well, she was a wonderful lady. That is why it is difficult to understand why anyone would want to harm her."

"I believe Dr. Horton was in frequent attendance?"

She hesitated. Greene looked at her face and couldn't fathom what it was he saw there. Then her look changed, her expression closed and there was a change in her tone.

"Yes, Dr. Horton called in several times a week, socially as well as professionally, I think you could say."

He waited.

"Yes, I maybe shouldn't say so, Inspector, but I used to think he spent more time there than was strictly, well, usual. Anyway, I'm speaking out of turn. I'm sure there were other things you wanted to ask me?"

"Yes. Miss Kirk, I wondered if you would be so good as to take me through Mrs. Burton's normal routine. What was the procedure about her medicines, and so on?"

She described a restricted life of routine, punctuated by frequent rests, small walks, and regular doses of tablets.

"The usual, Inspector, but I'm sure the doctor will take you through them, better than me. He's the professional. I know she had a tablet for her blood pressure, a water tablet, and that one to help her heart beat regularly. That's the one I had to be careful about, take her pulse before giving it to her, and not give her the tablet at all if her pulse was less than sixty."

So far, so consistent. Greene nodded slightly. "And the night she died, you must have been shocked. You're the one who found her, I believe?"

"Yes, I sleep...I mean I slept in an adjacent room. I am a light sleeper at the best of times, but I think I must have been...what do they call it? Subconsciously? That's it – subconsciously worrying about her.

"I heard a noise, like a little cry like she'd had a bad dream. I went in to her. Still, I didn't think much of it. I thought she'd had a fainting fit. Then, I tried smelling salts, fetched a glass of brandy—but she wasn't able to drink it. I realised then—her pulse was faint, then hardly detectible. I rang for the doctor. But he had already been to see Mrs. Butler earlier in the day, that's the strange thing. There can't have been anything then, can there? He listened to her heart."

"How often did you say the doctor visited?" Inspector Greene interjected.

"Regularly, they played card games sometimes. I even heard them on occasion playing a duet on the piano."

"Very cosy," said the inspector, but, this time, she did not take the bait. "What time did the doctor leave?"

"Turned eight o'clock, I know because of supper. Mrs. Whitchurch, the cook, had left something cold, finished for the evening, you see. I remember thinking it didn't matter so much about the meal being held up. They always seemed to have a lot to talk about, the doctor and Mrs. Butler."

Her tone was neutral, almost too dispassionate. As usual, there was probably a hidden agenda. It could be an innocent case of the woman getting irritated at the presence of the doctor at awkward times in the day, or it could be something more significant. He changed direction.

"I believe you were left a nice little legacy by Mrs. Butler-several hundred pounds, wasn't it?" He wouldn't have believed the woman would flush, but she did, and it was unbecoming. Yes, the Victorians had been like that. Talking about money was vulgar, bad manners.

Greene stood, abruptly. Surprise crossed Esther Kirk's face. But, he wasn't quite finished. "I'm sorry Miss Kirk, but I'm a policeman and I'm looking into something very serious indeed. I haven't the time to pussy-foot around." He could see that he dropped down several degrees in her estimation by the way she looked at him, and looked away quickly.

"Aye, Mrs. Butler was a good lady and good enough to leave me some money in her will. She knew I was on my own and the future isn't always palatable for those of us without kith and kin when we grow too old to continue in service. For all she was an American, she was a real lady, a thinking kind of woman, Inspector. But, even with the money and the fact that Miss Horton is a nice lady, I wouldn't swap Mrs. Butler's life and my own style of life as it was, for a legacy."

I wonder...Greene shook his head. As his old granny, who was full of such sayings, used to say, "Fine words butter no parsnips." But, for now, he had got as far as he could with this strange woman. He could not make her out, that was for sure. No, there was one other thing he needed to ask her before he took Sergeant Brown for a little fishing trip to the big smoke.

"The stepchildren," he asked. "Tell me about them." Again, there was tightening of the muscle around the jaw.

"That generation, Inspector, I don't understand them, especially after what young people went through not all that many years ago. I daresay Mr. Roderick and Miss Caroline are no worse than other young ones, those with the money to indulge, at any rate."

Inspector Greene nodded, let her take it as empathy if she liked, if it helped to get her to open up a bit. And, she had a point, though the young folk around here in the countryside were generally too busy to get up to no good. The wealthier usually, like Mrs. Butler's stepchildren, sowed their wild oats in London. "And did they visit their stepmother often?"

She shrugged, a barely perceptible move of the narrow shoulders.

"Reasonably often you might say—maybe each month, or six weeks or so, sometimes the pair of them came together, sometimes just one, Mr. Roderick, probably came a bit more often. A lot of time on his hands, you might say. He's in the business, but you know what it's like Inspector, when there's no shortage of money. They don't have the same drive, do they?"

You might be a bit queer, but you have your head screwed on. In fact, if she were a different type of woman, he and she would get on very well. Not that that makes a lot of sense.

* * *

Edith stared at Henry and her face burned Of course, she was going to meet Henry at some time. Ellbeck was small, but she had not expected him to visit her here.

"Would you like to go outside, Edith? The air is fresh, with that hint of autumn. A lovely day."

She nodded. Maybe it would be easier out of the atmosphere of this place. They did their best. It was clean, polished and they had things like sewing rooms and art therapy rooms. But it wasn't just in her imagination. The walls themselves seemed to hold so much despair and sorrow. They walked around the back of the hospital, towards the vegetable garden. There were roses in bloom and sweet peas trailed up canes. Edith caught the aroma of sweet English summer. Something inside her broke. She sank to her knees and put her hands over her face.

Henry knelt beside her. "Edith, my dear." His voice was calm. "Come on. Let's get you across to one of the benches. We don't want anyone seeing you so upset."

In the midst of her tears that struck Edith as strange...strange and somehow comforting, as if they were in something together. Not in any romantic way, just as friends. For once, a nurse or attendant had not followed her at a distance.

She stood up and steadied herself against Henry's arm. She took his handkerchief and scrubbed at her face as he led her to that same pink painted wooden bench. "No one about," she said. "I think it's the dog-collar. They must feel as though I'm in safe hands. Normally, they keep a good eye on me," she added.

"I'm not too sure about the safe hands," Henry said, sitting down alongside her. "I'm not doing much to help your spirits, so far."

Edith was calmer, though still shaken by that surge of helplessness. How stupid. "I smelt the sweet peas. They were beautiful. It stirred something, something sad. How such bad in the world can exist hand in hand with such beauty?"

Henry took her hand. He didn't say anything for a few moments, just sat with her. "It's true," he said, eventually. "But, I suppose your bout of illness is all about that."

How do you mean?" She raised her eyes and looked in his face.

"Well, about losing equilibrium I suppose, when the evil things undermine the good, in your mind. That's when you can't enjoy the beauty and the good without instantly thinking of the other side of life."

"It's interesting that...that my view is distorted. It's a thought to hold on to, isn't it? It sounds much better than thinking I'm going mad. But, Henry, all I want to know is whether I will ever get better."

He answered her instantly and his words, even if they could be viewed as platitudinous comforted her.

"I'm sure you will get better, Edith. Listen, you are one of the sanest and calmest people I know. That equilibrium will come back. I also know many others who have suffered a bout of...of...mental distress. Some of them are also reasoning sane people. Perhaps they think a bit more or a bit deeper than the man on the Clapham omnibus does. Maybe it is all that thinking that gets to them a bit."

"The thing is, Henry, they are very good to me here, kind and patient and actually. I don't feel that they view me as a madwoman. Well, maybe when I first came in. How bad was I Henry? I remember very little about it."

He sighed, let go of her hand and smoothed his dark greying hair, something she had seen him do before, when he was at a loss. "Acutely distressed, Edith. When you say you don't remember, do you mean you don't remember the time just before you were admitted here, or are you meaning before that, as well?"

"I know what you are saying Henry. You mean Matt. I don't know how much I do remember really. I remember the pain when I found out...out of all proportion to how long I'd known him. I remember a sense of urgency, a need to put things right, clear up the misunderstanding. But, it wasn't a misunderstanding, was it?"

Henry shook his head.

"I remember a letter coming, Archie going around the house in a furious mood, everything going out of my control. The police came. I thought it was about Matt and that I had done something seriously wrong. I've had that feeling before, in the hospital, in the war—getting something wrong, panicking. After that, I just remember noise and shouting and someone crying...me, I think. Then here."

"Thank you for talking to me, Edith, I know it must be painful, remembering, but part of the recovery as well."

"Thank you for listening, Henry. The thing is, though, I need to talk to the staff here, to get my pass out. I like them, Dr. Uxbridge in particular. He's good too, used to work in some centre in Surrey, where they sent ex-servicemen. He has enlightened ideas. But, I go in to see him with the best intentions and then I open my mouth and there's only silence."

"Is there something about him? I mean I know you say you like him, but maybe...is there a particular problem you have opening up to him?"

Edith shook her head. "Not that I know of. I suppose we had better get back," She paused. "Henry."

"Yes, what is it?"

"Archie...he hasn't been in for a few days. I don't understand why. Mrs. Braithwaite said the police have been round again. I don't know the results of the exhumation on Mrs. Butler. But, I think I can guess. I should be at home, helping and supporting him. Instead, I'm in here, an embarrassment, and a worry."

She saw Henry's frown.

"I know. I shouldn't be talking like this. I can't help being ill. I'm not doing it deliberately. I know the arguments, Henry. But, deep down many people view this sort of thing, breakdown, or whatever you want to call it, as weakness. Look what happened in the war. Men were shot for losing their nerve."

"That was a disgrace. Stop Edith, if dwelling on the bad in the world is part of your depression, this guilt is also part of it. To get better, you have to stop it."

"I know," Edith said. "Maybe the whole business with Matt was part of my illness too. Do you think so?"

"I haven't got all the answers, Edith, not at all. But, maybe if you believe that to be the case, then it was so. Sometimes our own hearts know the answers, but we don't or can't listen."

* * *

Someone had pulled her out of the river. She remembered kicking and fighting. But that might have been panic, because she hadn't seen or heard anyone coming, just felt arms around her body, "Eh, love, it isn't worth that, whatever it is."

She had felt ashamed then and flooded with feeling. The bubble had burst—this was real and somewhere deep inside amidst all the confusion was relief. What she had been going to do wasn't the answer. He wouldn't be better off—he would have to live with the knowledge of what she had done and maybe even blame himself.

Her parents...but she couldn't think about them yet.

She would be dead and it would be too late to put anything right. It would be too late for everything.

Chapter 4

"Stop gawping, lad, anyone would think you've never been out of Yorkshire.

Have you been further than Harrogate, Brown?"

"Err, Leeds, once sir, on an outing."

Greene raised his eyes to heaven. He didn't refer to the fact his own knowledge of London was extremely limited. Six weeks seconded to the city, many years ago now. They were on their way to see Roderick Butler. To save themselves a wasted journey, they had contacted him, through the address given to them by that Esther woman.

"Does all right for himself," said Greene as they approached the uniformed concierge at the high wooden reception desk.

"Bit like an 'otel, isn't it, sir?"

"Good for them that 'as it handed to them. Never mind that kind of talk though. We speak to this fellow without prejudice. Forget that he was born with a whopping great silver spoon in 'is gob."

He was winding himself up. Never mind he was the one with the prejudices. Inspector Greene had risen up the ranks, been educated in the school of 'ard knocks. All of that. Now he was talking as if it was Brown who was jumping to conclusions about the toff. He sighed as the concierge gave them directions. No one knows what he had to put up with.

"I'll do the talking," Greene said in a low voice as they waited for their knock to be answered.

The lean, tall, and laconic youth held out a lily-white hand to each of them in turn. He confirmed everything Greene thought about him. The room was opulent, but immaculate and tasteful, too. There would definitely be a manservant and a housekeeper, somewhere in the background.

"I didn't see you there, miss," Greene said to the young lady seated on the leather sofa. The room was so big-you could miss your granny in here.

She got up and came towards them, holding out her hand.

"My sister, Caro...Caroline, to use her proper moniker," said Roderick. "Thought it would save us all time and trouble, don't you know, if you could see both of us. You do want to talk to both of us, I suppose?

"Yes, Mr. Butler. You suppose right. That's why we're here. We want to have a chat with both you and your sister."

"We haven't seen Mummy for, oh, ages, Inspector—must be, what Rod, six weeks something?"

"Yah," said Roderick, "York races, we stayed over with Mummy, for what? A couple of nights? Always glad to see us, Mummy."

So it's mummy. Utterly ridiculous in a grown man, whatever about the girl. Pity he's so much better looking than her. There was a likeness between the brother and sister, but in Caroline, the looks didn't quite come off. There was the slightest coarsening of the fair features, and her mouth looked too big and too full of teeth. But, she seemed, to Greene, to have a lot more go in her, than the brother did.

"Such a shock, poor old mummy," said Roger. "By the way, can we offer you something in the line of refreshment. Tea, coffee, something stronger? He made a braying sound that was presumably a laugh.

Greene nearly disgraced himself and laughed out loud.-The man sounded like a donkey braying. "A cup of tea, would be nice, Mr. Horton. Greene expected the girl to go and get it, but no, Roderick rang a little brass bell, and a woman with neat hair in a bun and a crossover apron came to take his order for tea. How the other half lives.

"So, it would come as a surprise to you both to find that your stepmother died of an overdose of her heart medicine?" Greene deliberately threw the question at them.

The girl began to giggle and then put a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry, but this must be some sort of a sick joke, mustn't it, Roderick." She looked at her brother,

"What grounds do you have for saying that, Inspector?" Roderick asked.

"Her body was exhumed as a result of information received."

"Her body exhumed? That's outrageous. Why weren't we, as her next-of-kin asked for permission, or even informed?" Roderick's Adam's apple strained as he assumed his natural place at the top of the pile.

"We need a court order, Mr. Butler, not anyone's permission. And you and your sister proved a little elusive."

He looked mollified. "Yes, well, that's true, I suppose. I've been in the South of France and Caro's been filming."

"Really, miss, how interesting. You an actress then?"

The girl transformed. Not that she suddenly appeared to be a raving beauty, or anything-but something shone in her face, almost luminous, Greene thought, in a rare flash of poetry.

"Well, I'm hoping to be. Now, I'm only at the edges, a sort of extra. A bit part in the latest picture Randolph is shooting actually, but I'm pretty sure it's just a matter of time."

"Stow it, Caro, old girl. What will the policemen think about you—rabbiting on about the pictures when they have delivered this dreadful news about mummy?"

She shut up and looked embarrassed.

"We have established that the last time you both saw your mummy, I mean mother...was about six weeks ago. We can verify that by talking to her housekeeper, companion woman, whatever she's called, and the daily staff. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, any unusual visitors to the house, anything at all like that?

"That doctor seemed to be spending a great amount of time with her," said Roderick, "A bit odd, that, I thought at the time. Then it turns out that Mummy leaves him a legacy. Surely that's a bit dubious inspector. Don't these physician take an oath or something?"

"Yes, about preserving life, I believe. I don't think it involves refusing legacies...but, anyway, I should think you would be better off talking to your solicitor about that. To return to your stepmother, would you say you ever saw any signs of depression signs that she might harm herself?"

Again, the girl laughed. Greene was finding her very irritating.

"Sorry, inspector, but it's so ridiculous, mummy, harming herself. She was a happy, cheerful woman...saw the best in life. In fact, she was annoyingly optimistic at times, wouldn't you say, Rodders?"

"Yes, Mummy doing anything like that is out of the question."

"You were both born in the States?"

Roderick answered. "Yes, ma died when I was six and Caroline was three. Dad was a successful businessman. I suppose you could say, a magnate. He mourned our mother for five years, then on a business trip to London, he met mummy, Elizabeth. They overcame the difficulties of the distance. She came out first, became our stepmom and eventually dad came here. I think he fell in love with the country as well as with mummy."

"And there were no problems, none of the stories you hear about wicked stepmothers, that sort of thing."

"Good gracious, Inspector, certainly not. I say, I know what they say about the straight-talking Yorkshire man and all that, but you're the business, aren't you? Getting straight to the point, I mean."

Greene's expression didn't change "Well, yes, sir, if you like, I find it saves a lot of time, in the end. You work, in your father's business?" Greene threw the last in quickly, disconcerting the lounging youth, who apparently liked to steer the pace.

"Well, yes, I pop into the old office, the head office every so often...couple of times a week maybe, see that everything is ticking over nicely—which it usually is, as my old dad appointed a top team. There's a sort of partner chap, Wilkinson, who has his finger on the pulse and a rock-solid board of directors."

Mmm, sounds like our man here is surplus to requirements. "How old were you when your father died, Mr. Horton?" Greene asked.

"Just eighteen, just gone up to university."

"So, no time to get a handle on the business, then?

"Not really, no. Maybe if the old man had lived a bit longer, but...well there you go Inspector. That's how the thing played out."

"I don't suppose your stepmother involved much in the running of Butler's?"

They both looked at him. In Caroline's case, with a grin on her face. She had the sort of mouth that would be poor at hiding her feelings.

"That's where you're wrong, Inspector," Roderick said. Mummy may have lived in Yorkshire, and not have been in the best of health, but she took a very keen interest in the business. She attended some of the major meetings, followed the stock market, and had the directors up to Yorkshire sometimes for the weekend."

Greene couldn't be sure of the tone of voice behind these words. They were lightly spoken, but there was an undertone of something. It could have been respect; on the other hand, it could have been slight mockery. Greene had the distinct impression that beneath the breeziness was an unhappy young man. The girl wasn't so hard to make out. The passion was in her voice when she spoke that nonsense about the pictures. Then again, maybe it wasn't nonsense. If you had the money, no doubt a lot of doors magically opened for you. And, Greene had had to revise his impression of her. She might not be Clara Bow, certainly not your normal beauty, but the girl had something.

"Never envy the idle rich," he told Brown apropos of nothing particular, as they had a cup of tea and a sandwich before setting back on the journey north.

"How do you mean, sir?" Brown asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Well, take young fella-me-lad there today. More money than is good for him and dissatisfied with life."

Brown said nothing.

* * *

"How have you been feeling in the last few days, Edith? Any change?

Edith shook her head, and clasped her shaking hands. Dr. Uxbridge looked at her, though not in a threatening way. He sat at an angle to her. He had come out from behind his desk. Edith had never known any doctor to do that.

"Are you sleeping?" he asked.

"Fairly well, but it's hard to wake up."

"That's normal. It's the medication. How about your appetite?"

"All right." She was being uncommunicative, rude even but at least she was talking.

"And your mood? Is there any change."

She couldn't answer that, not honestly. If she did, they would never let her out of this place. And she was sure she wanted to get out, get home, and start pulling her weight again. She wasn't being fair to anyone. There were things she needed to put right. "Maybe a little less low," she said. "I haven't lost control, thought things that weren't true..."

He spoke gently. "Again, we can't know for sure that the medication isn't playing a part in that. Maybe covering things a bit.

That was like a slap in the face. "But that's awful then, doctor. I mean what is the point in that? If my feelings are just being dampened down. How do I even know if and when I will get better?" She could hear her voice rise and her heart pound

"It isn't that bad, Edith. The medication plays its part, as you say. It dampens down the worst of the depression. How you felt before you were admitted? Nothing else, all the talking in the world would not have done you any good at that point, would it?"

She shook her head, calmer. It made sense.

"You worked as a nurse in the war, in a field hospital for a while then back at St Thomas' am I right?"

"Yes,"

"So you saw both ends of it. You saw the things that doctors and nurses did on the spot, bandaging, staunching, cauterising, patching up. But the slow slog didn't start immediately—did it? The months of slow therapy and rehabilitation?"

Yes, it made sense to her now.

"I am thinking in terms of a weekend pass, fairly soon. Maybe a week tomorrow?"

Her heart began to race fast again, but in joy and anticipation this time. But, as a doubt struck her, the doctor put it into words.

"You live with your brother, in his practice, part of the house where he has his surgery. Am I right?

She nodded.

"Has he been in to see you lately? We would need to speak to him, you understand? Before we could release you."

Edith had not acknowledged it yet to herself, but there was an added sense of unease, and it was about Archie. He had not been to the hospital in the last week. In fact, it must be coming up to two weeks since he had last visited. He'd little to say on that occasion, but she had been emerging from the worst period of blackness and been preoccupied with functioning, in putting one foot in front of the other.

But, looking back now, he hadn't stayed long and had been even more taciturn than usual. He hadn't always been like that, but they had both changed. She didn't want to show any hint of this to Dr. Uxbridge. "I think Archie should be in to see me shortly. I'll talk to him about it then, ask him to see you."

Regardless, of her unease about Archie, Edith was buoyed up as she went with the nurse back to her ward. She was getting better. She was getting a weekend pass. She had turned a corner.

* * *

She hadn't needed a straitjacket the first days after they had brought her to this place. She had been her own straitjacket, legs curled up and arms tightly clasped around her body. First thing, they had made her strip and get into a bath, where there was some sort of disinfectant and then she had been given a coarse brown dress to put on. Anything that might cause possible harm, from a comb to a small mirror, to her belts was removed.

She felt like a prisoner or maybe a nun. All individuality gone; her spirit broken being shown who was in charge from the start. But, it did eventually get better, once she learned to play the game. She could measure her days, then the months and eventually the years, by the way she had played it. At first after they had taken away her spirit, she had drawn into herself to a place in her head that wasn't peaceful—never that—but that allowed her not to mind.

So, at that stage of her time in this place, they mainly left her alone, concentrating instead on the ones who gave them the most trouble. In time, she would become one of those, but not yet.

* * *

"Archie, you are being an absolute pig. You can't do this to her. You can't. What do you think this is going to do to the poor girl?"

Julia Etherington stood in front of Archie's desk, holding onto the edges, staring at Archie. She and he had exchanged insults before, they had always had this thing of knocking spots off the other, but this was in a different realm altogether.

Julie had had a feeling something was awry. The excuse of Archie's being always busy had worn thin and she began to wonder if there wasn't something more behind the fact he hadn't visited Edith.

So after a troubling visit to St Bride's she'd driven straight to Ellbeck. She would not be missed at home. Giles was staying in London overnight on business and Bea was staying at her uncle's farm, with her favourite cousin, Daisy.

"She's not ready to come home," had been Archie's reaction to the news about the weekend pass.

Julia had no longer been able to disregard the elephant in the room. "You haven't been to see her for a while. She's noticed you know, Archie. She hasn't said a lot, but I know she's wondering. And her doctor, Dr. Uxbridge wants to speak to you first before they let her home for the weekend."

"What are you talking about—home for the weekend? That's ludicrous. There is no way she is anywhere near being ready to leave that hospital. I can't believe they are even considering it."

"She is getting better, Archie, more like herself. I hate to say this, but you would know if you visited." She had overstepped the mark. It was clear even before he began speaking to her in icy tones.

"How dare you judge me, Julia? I'm sorry to have to speak to you like this and, I know I sound pompous. Fair enough, you have her best interests at heart. I know you and Edith, myself too for that matter, go back a long way. We've been through a lot together. But, you have gone too far. You shouldn't judge me. You have no idea what the past couple of months have been like in this house."

"Well, tell me then Archie" For a minute she thought he was going to. He got up, went over to the window that looked out into the back garden of the house, his patients' privacy protected from passers-by.

"She can't come home, not yet. I can't look after her. I have police here every other day. The practice is in trouble and I have too much on my plate. Later on, when she's properly better. I can't see the point of these weekend passes, at any rate, never have been able to. Well and good, when the patient is better, ready to come home. What's the point in building up hopes too soon and then having to go back again on the Sunday night?"

That's when Julia's fury erupted.

Archie just looked at her steadily, didn't resume his seat. He was as good as telling her to leave. Well, all right, I will leave, but not without a last word. "If you don't want her home, and by the way, I think your excuses are pathetic, at least have the decency to go up there and tell her that." She left the room without looking at him again.

Thank God, Giles is away tonight. One supercilious remark from him and I might end up in the bed next to Edith.

* * *

Archie poured himself a drink and was going to build up the fire Mrs. Braithwaite had laid when the house telephone rang.

"Archie, dear."

He sighed, sat down in the hall chair, and wished he'd had the forethought to bring his drink with him

"You must be busy, my dear,"

Aunt Alicia code for why haven't you been to see me? Stop it. She's elderly and lonely and no doubt, worried about Edith.

A thought—a saving thought struck him. "Aunt Alicia," he said, "they are talking about releasing Edith from the hospital, only for the weekend. I wondered...I'm out and about and as you know, the house here is like a train station, people coming and going. She'd have little peace, people gawping at her, making her feel uncomfortable..."

"Of course, Archie." The pleasure in his aunt's voice was genuine. Goodness me, there isn't anything in the world I'd like more. Dear Edith must come here for the weekend—in fact for as long as she likes. I'll get the spare room ready for her immediately. I'll get Esther to make everything nice for her..."

Chapter 5

"So where are you up to in talking to the house staff, Brown? Time is flying by. We are already starting from way back in the field, due to the fact that our friend, Horton, certified the death as natural causes, heart failure. We don't want to lose any more time."

"I have only spoken to Jock Braithwaite, who used to do odd jobs, and some driving for Mrs. Butler...he saw nothing and knows nothing. Shifty type, isn't he?"

Greene interrupted sharply. "Related to Horton's housekeeper and the young one who works for the spinster sisters?"

"Yes, that's right, husband and father. I'm tracking down the woman who did the cooking, a Mrs. Whitchurch. The thing is, sir, she's away, and I haven't been able to catch the woman who used to do the rough...Stella Sattherthwaite.

"And why not? Come on lad, you need to be shaping up better than this."

Brown flushed. It was so unfair; the old sod knew the reason he hadn't interviewed everyone who set foot in Mrs. Butler's house, Brook House, was Greene had him buzzing around like a blue-arsed fly. But Brown knew when to keep his mouth shut.

The one thing that drove the boss insane was what he called whingeing. Brown was actually going to see the Sattherthwaite piece this afternoon. He was quite looking forward to that. An image of blonde, candyfloss-soft hair and very red-painted lips swam before his eyes. She was an exotic flower indeed for these parts.

With a bit of luck as well, there might be a trip to London along the line. Brown had been too young for the war and had often secretly regretted the missed chance of a bit of travel. Mind you, it didn't pay to go around saying that sort of thing.

"Call back on them two old dears in the shop this afternoon, there's something amiss there. Have a scout around. See if there are any suspicious looking pieces of paper and so on. I mean there wouldn't be any trouble with stamps, now, would there?"

He chortled at his own wit, and left Brown wondering how he could fit Stella and the Sowerby sisters in.

* * *

Cathy was miserable. Everywhere she looked there were people wrapped up in their own troubles. She had no one to talk to. There had been a girl at school, Elsie, but since she had gone into service at the Arbuthnot's, it seemed she had found other friends.

It was stupid; working in a shop wasn't anything special, not exactly a cut above domestic service or anything. But, sometimes Cathy wondered if she'd set herself apart from her friends. She took her sandwiches round to the yard at the back of the shop, where the hanging baskets were past their best.

The sisters didn't mind Cathy sitting here when the weather was good, though they had told her she was welcome to join them in the kitchen when the shop closed at twelve for an hour. She did sometimes, to be polite, but what she liked best of all was an hour to herself, to read her library book and be quiet.

Work had been her refuge from the misery of home. But even that wasn't the case now. Now, she was lucky to get a word out of either Miss Marjorie, or Miss Prudence. She couldn't think what could have happened to cause this rift. The truth was they weren't speaking to each other at all. Only when they had to, and they even used her at times to pass messages back and forwards.

Cathy sometimes thought she would like to do something more with her life than serve in a shop, but she had no encouragement at home, once her father returned from the South.

It had been something she'd heard at school that had made Cathy wonder why her father hadn't returned straight from the war like other fathers. Those who hadn't been killed, that was.

She'd asked her mother. "Mam, why hasn't dad come home? Is he going to come home?" She would never forget the expression on her mother's face as she answered her.

"Best not to talk about it, Cathy, your father got a job down south from some important man he met during the war. You know he sends money, for you and John, that's all anyone needs to know."

It hadn't been the words, but her face, like a distancing, a shutting down. She had often seen that look on the faces of adults when they talked in hushed voices, using stupid meaningless phrases, like, "one of those," "the usual trouble," and "no better than she ought." Though she was sixteen now, Cathy still didn't feel she belonged to the world where people talked like that and understood what it all meant.

"You have a very responsible job, here, Cathy," Miss Marjorie had said to her on her first day. Discretion is of the utmost important. You discover all sorts of things about people, through the post office, telegrams and so forth. It is a privileged position, and not a word that passes in this shop must ever be repeated outside these four walls. Do you understand, Cathy?"

Cathy had nodded, feeling as if she had been chastised for something she hadn't done. She had never since heard Miss Marjorie use that exact tone of voice. She had almost lost her Yorkshire accent, in the solemnity of what she was saying. As far as Cathy knew, she had kept to her word and not broken any confidences.

* * *

The words had been dropped into the air and now Edith wanted Archie gone.

Edith's heart had given a little flip as she saw the tall figure in the tweed jacket walk with his usual assurance down the corridor. She was just back from a session at occupational therapy. Drawing actually, something she had absolutely no talent for, but she didn't want to rock any boats by objecting to anything the hospital suggested. She had glanced behind her and seen Archie. He hesitated for a split second and then came to where she was standing by the ward door."

"Hello, Edie, you're looking a bit more chipper, I must say, Julia told me you were on the mend."

"Archie." She touched his sleeve. They didn't go in for much hugging or kissing in their family, but it was comforting to see him and silly as it was, to touch the rough fabric of his sleeve.

They went into her side room. Every day, she felt thankful she didn't have to sleep in one of the dormitories. She hadn't questioned her good fortune in being granted this privilege, but suspected it might have something to do with her brother's profession. She led the way into the room and perched on the side of the bed, and offered Archie the high armchair, but he walked across to the window.

"Not a bad view," he said.

"I suppose. How are you, Archie? I thought, well, I thought you might have been in to see me a bit sooner. Sorry, I suppose you've had a lot on your plate."

Edith sat on the edge of the bed, tried to relax her shoulders and keep her head from drooping. It was a strain trying to avoid looking depressed all the time.

"Yes, a couple of more visits from Greene and Brown—unfortunate combination of names there." He laughed hollowly. "I can't help thinking it's only by the skin of my teeth that I haven't been arrested. It seems like I've committed the cardinal sin—getting too close to a patient. Not in the usual way, but maybe this is looked on as even more suspect. Anyway, that's enough about me. Julia tells me they're talking about weekend passes or something soon. Seems a bit stupid to me."

Something was happening in Edith's chest. Her heart was jumping about all over the place. This used to happen to her in the time leading up to her breakdown, as she called it now. "They do think I'm better, Archie. This is a step along the way, according to Dr. Uxbridge, a trial run, I suppose. If I cope with this hopefully I might be released soon." She looked at him and tried to keep the pleading out of her eyes. But, somehow, his words did not surprise her. "I think it's a bad idea, the worst possible idea. In fact a recipe for disaster—like a relapse and being back to stage one. But, if Uxbridge thinks it's right for you, then I don't suppose there's a lot of point in me putting in my tuppence worth."

With every word he spoke, Edith's spirits plummeted a bit more. In fact, it went deeper than that. With every word he spoke, Edith told herself she had been living in a fool's paradise to think she might be getting better. After all, who knew her better, Dr. Uxbridge or her brother, who also happened to be a doctor? But more than that he was the person who had seen the way she'd been in the weeks and months before her descent into the hell that propelled her into this place."

"Maybe you're right," she said eventually. She wanted him to go even more than she'd wanted him to visit. "Archie, I'm very tired, I'm sorry, it's this medication, it catches me like this, and the only thing to do then is to sleep."

* * *

"I'll be in again very soon Edie. Is there anything I can bring you? The new novel by Agatha Christie?"

"If you like, yes, thank you, Archie."

She opened her mouth to say that Dr. Uxbridge had wanted a chat with him, but changed her mind. What was the point? That was about weekend leave and Archie had made it plain as day, he didn't want her home. Since she had been in here, since she had begun to feel a little like herself again, this was, without doubt, the lowest she had felt.

* * *

She had begun to emerge from herself, like an animal after hibernation. Small curiosities about the other patients—where had they come from? What on earth had happened to them that they had ended in this place?

By now, for all that she was quiet and caused no trouble she had been put in a long-stay ward. She didn't think that was a good sign. But life, some sort of life had to be lived out, even in here. She couldn't keep her legs bent up and her arms wrapped around her forever.

She began to look at the warders, study them and wonder why they did this work. Was it a job, just a job to keep the wolf from the door? But, they differed. One, a woman called Flora had a gentleness about her, a soft voice that encouraged you to talk. But, Flora was unusual—others got the only satisfaction that seemed available to them by provoking and mocking.

She began to eat, to beg to be allowed to work. It became an obsession, this need to work. Other, trusted patients left the ward every morning to go to the gardens, the laundry, the kitchens, or the sewing rooms to pass the time and to enable this huge place, this self-contained world to function. She often thought that it was a distorted version of one of the big country houses, with all this work going on in the background to keep up appearances. The gardens here too, were productive and pristine and the hallways and stair banisters shining and smelling of lavender polish.

When she'd convinced them that she was calm now, she was allowed to work in the hospital laundry. She hardly slept the night before despite the bromide, so excited was she at the thought of going to work—work had always been something good, despite all that had happened. If only she could do a job, then maybe, in time, other things might become normal too.

* * *

All the way home, driving his Austin Seven unheedingly through the lanes that divided St Bride's from Ellbeck, Archie chided himself. Yet again, he had not thought things through—considered about the consequences of his behaviour. He'd been unable to cope with the prospect of Edith under the same roof as himself and that was the truth.

"You are very single-minded," Bridget had said to him once. They had been having an argument. After her death, he hadn't been one of those people who had gone around claiming that they had never had a cross word. He and Bridget had exchanged plenty cross words. She had been Irish, and well able to fight her corner.

He had been, as she pointed out, single-minded, which was another way of saying, stubborn. In fact, part of her attraction for him, secretly, was that fire and the fact she had trained as a doctor, when that had been a tough thing for a woman to do. That took steeliness and a level of commitment he believed, at some deep level, augured well for their future together.

So, shame then about the explosion that hit the hospital where she'd been working. People, on hearing she had been killed, questioned it, he'd heard afterwards, saying surely it had been Archie. He was, after all, the Doctor Horton who was near the front lines. I always thought it was referred to as the singular, but I may be wrong!

He could hear Bridget's voice now. Funny, he couldn't properly see her face in his mind's eye, but he could hear her saying, "Archie Horton you are a selfish bastard. Your sister has given up her life to help you up here in this backwater. In her hour of need, the one time in all these years she's the one needing a bit of support and care, you spectacularly turn your back on her." That's what Bridget would have said—he could hear her. He drove a little faster in a bid to drive the voice from his head.

* * *

Brown sat across the table from Stella Satterthwaite and drank in the sight of her. Lucky old beggar, Rob Satterthwaite, coming home every night to a dish as tasty as this one. She looked as good close-up as she had when he's seen her in the distance. The trademark red lipstick emphasised the pale, flawless skin. She wore a deep-blue dress, low enough to excite a glimmer of interest, but not too low, really, to perturb the vicar if he happened to call round to the neat-as-a-pin terraced house behind the church in Ellbeck. He'd caught a glimpse of two little boys in clean shirts, shorts and braces playing a game involving a board as he and their mother had passed through the kitchen.

What did old Mrs. S. think now? She had literally broken down in tears in front of several villagers when Rob had returned with this different type of girl. "She'll break his heart, nothing but a flibberty-gibbet and painted hussy" had been some of her milder comments.

But contrary to her mother-in-law's opinion, Stella had been as good as her name, a bright star, who lit up the village. Rob and the boys were happy and on top of all that, she was the type of woman who would set to and do a job to supplement the wages Rob earned as a farm worker. "So, Mrs. Satterthwaite, how long had you worked at Mrs. Butler's and what was it you did, exactly?"

She had a different accent from the country folks, not as broad. "I worked there coming up two years. As to what I did, I suppose you might call it light housework, like. Not all that light if truth be known, big old place like that and only us two women, myself and Mary Whitchurch to do the cooking. Then there was Braithwaite, the swine, takkin Mrs. Butler about and keeping the garden in order and so on, and that sourpuss Esther Kirk. So, I suppose we didn't stand on ceremony, me and Mary. We set to and did what 'ad to be done. You'll 'ave a cup of tea, lad?"

"If it's no trouble."

"No trouble and I'll check on them two rascals while I'm about it. They're a bit too quiet for my liking." She returned with slices of Victoria sponge on a china plate and what looked like the best cups and saucers.

While she was pouring, Brown glanced around at the small parlour. He supposed that's what you'd call it. It wasn't really like any parlour he'd seen before, nothing like his own mother's for instance, with her antimacassars and brass plant pots. No, this was more like a scaled down version of some of those elegant drawing rooms you see in grand houses, not that it was trying to be something it wasn't—it was...tasteful, he supposed. Nice wallpaper, not too much clutter and cushions she'd obviously made herself.

Brown noticed things like that due to being an only child raised by a widowed mother. He would never have commented on that sort of observation to the inspector, or indeed to any of his colleagues. "What sort of a woman was Mrs. Butler?"

She smiled, her teeth white between the red-painted lips. "She were different, that's what she were. So, maybe that's why some of the local ladies didn't know what to make of her. Maybe it was because she'd spent time in America, maybe because she had been in business. I don't know, but it was like she didn't quite fit in. She was forthright, in her views. Equal rights for women, that sort of thing. I think that kind of talk, in a quiet place like this, can ruffle feathers, make people feel they're too set in their ways, missing out on something. I think maybe the local ladies didn't feel comfortable around her."

"Not the case with the local doctor, though I believe." He'd made a mistake, her face tightened and she looked displeased with his flippant comment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put it that way. What I meant was that Doctor Horton spent a good bit of time at Brook House, that they were friends—that's all."

She shrugged. "Fair enough. I don't like some of the gossip that's going round the place lately. I was saying as much to Rob this morning. I've been at the receiving end of gossip myself, Sergeant Brown. It makes me angry.

She enjoyed a talk with the doctor, that was it. And he enjoyed a talk with her, an intelligent woman who had seen a bit of the world. Ellbeck is a lovely place, Sergeant. I wouldn't want to live anywhere else, but it can also be a bit...well, close-minded at times. Anyway, it wasn't only the doctor. The vicar, Henry Wilkes called on her at least once every week. Then there were guests up from London, from the firm and their wives. She was a bit restricted by her heart trouble, but she hadn't given up on people and company, quite the opposite, I'd say."

"Then, there are the stepchildren, not that you can talk them children, Caroline and Roderick. How did you find them?"

Again, Stella shrugged. "They were my employer's family. I was polite to them. I can't say they made much of an impression one way or another."

"Come on, Mrs. Satterthwaite, you strike me as a very intelligent and observant woman. I can't believe you didn't form an impression."

"All right, Sergeant. Flattery will get you everywhere. I was not overly keen, especially on Roderick. But then, maybe seeing my husband work seventy hours a week, and having lost my own father to lung disease because of coal mining, I'm probably a bit biased against the idle rich—especially when they don't even make any pretence at doing a day's work..."

"And the step-daughter, Caroline?"

"All right, I suppose, she maybe acknowledged our presence...the staff I mean, a bit more than her brother. Head stuffed full of all this film nonsense though."

"I believe they hadn't visited their stepmother for quite a while before her death."

"Not all that long, a couple of weeks, I'd say, definitely no more than three weeks."

Brown puzzled over that one as he thanked Mrs. Satterthwaite for the tea and ruffled the hair of the youngest boy as he went out through the kitchen. She'd been quite definite about the time lapse between the stepchildren's visit and Mrs. Butler's death. They had been equally adamant.

Someone was forgetful or lying and he was pretty sure it wasn't the woman he just left. Then would Caroline and Roderick tell such a blatant lie that could be easily disproved if they had something to hide? He'd have to take it to Inspector Brown and he could already hear him say, "We all have something to hide, lad."

Chapter 6

Julie Etherington drank her coffee slowly, enjoying the dark, bitter richness.

She stared out through the window to the rain-sodden lawn and trees. Though it was getting towards the back end of the year, the shimmering, multi-shaded green was mesmerising. There was so much green. There was a sudden flash of mud in her mind's eye and she turned her head sharply to escape from it. A spring of sadness started in her chest, and she sought the only cure that ever worked. She got up from the chair and moved. Inactivity was the troubled mind's most dangerous enemy, she had discovered.

Gladys, the parlour maid was coming in for the tray. "I'm going to go out into the garden, for a while, Gladys." Not that anyone was likely to be looking for her. The boys were not due back for half term, for another few weeks, and Beatrice was at the village primary school. As for Giles, well, who knows? When she'd first come to live here she insisted from the start she have some say on the garden. As it was, Paddy, the gardener, and Maurice, the under-gardener, pleased themselves at every opportunity. It might be her imagination, but even after so many years, she still felt an interloper. It frightened her, but there were times when this lack of purpose and occupation played on her mind, even more than the horrors of the hospital, even the field hospital. How could that be?

Julia knew she needed something to occupy her. But what could she do about it? The war had brought about change in the lives of women, according to what she read, and to some extent, saw around her, but only to the lives of some women. It had been different when the children were younger. Despite the presence of a nurse, the children had been much more hers. There had been picnics and games, and they had put on plays and shows in the winter.

"You're as bad as they are," Giles used to say to her. She remembered now the smile in his voice, in his eyes as he spoke to her. When had it changed?

The very idea of having such a light-hearted conversation with him, these days, was laughable. Or it would make her weep. A lot of use crying will do, now. She dragged the back of her hand across her eyes, and went into the shed to fetch her secateurs and trowel.

For the next couple of hours she hacked and pruned, and scratched her hands, welcoming the sharp pricks. At least she was feeling something. She didn't think she had what you would call a gift for gardening. But the activity calmed her.

Then she cut her hand, on a piece of unseen barbed wire. The cut was deep and ragged, and she couldn't believe she'd been so careless. She sat on the low wall, her handkerchief clamped tightly around her hand, and wept. But while she cried, it was as though she stood to one side of herself and felt contempt for the stupid woman she had become, and her pointless tears.

* * *

Archie Horton could hear the telephone ringing as soon as he let himself into the house. It would be that bloody inspector again. He was playing cat and mouse with him, Archie had decided. If the inspector was trying to rile him, well, it was working. For two pins he'd put himself on some tranquillizers, but he found a drink did the trick of unwinding him, at the end of the day, and alcohol and barbiturates together were not such a good idea.

"Archie," it was his aunt's voice.

Damn, he'd forgotten about all this business about the weekend pass. He hadn't even mentioned Aunt Alicia's offer to Edith. Well, come to think of it, he couldn't possibly have done so. That would only look even more as if he was trying to fob her off.

"Did you see Edith, today?"

"Yes,"

"And how did you find her? Did you ask her about coming to me for the weekend?"

"I'm afraid not, not yet. She got the impression that I didn't want her home for the weekend. I'm afraid the visit didn't go well, after that."

She sighed. "Oh, Archie, sometimes you are not the most tactful...if you don't mind me saying so."

He laughed. Trust Aunt Alicia to come to the point, though in this case it probably was the understatement of the year.

"I'll tell you what, Archie. I'll visit her myself, tomorrow. Let me ask her."

"Do you want me to take you?"

"No, I'll drive myself, it's not far."

* * *

Dorothea Arbuthnot read the letter again, the hateful letter that she'd been carrying around in her pocket for weeks. Why on earth don't I destroy it, burn it? But, something told her not to. She should probably have taken it to the police. This sort of thing couldn't be allowed to continue. She doubted she was the only person in the village to have received one of these obscene things. Somehow, though, she couldn't face doing that.

The whole framework of her existence depended on holding firm. The loss of the boys, the estrangement...well, almost...from Helena and Arthur's drinking. Someone had to keep the boat straight. If she were to crumple, to show weakness, the whole edifice would collapse. But she could have done with somebody to share this burden with. She read the letter again, trying to find some clues in the words.

"Dear Mrs. Arbuthnot, How do you sleep at night? How do you live your smug, privileged life, knowing what you have done? Knowing what your husband has done? But then, he has a conscience, it seems. Otherwise, why would he spend so much time drowning his sorrows?

Your daughter is nothing better than a whore...and your sons, well you know as well as I do what a big lie all that was based on.

Hold it all together as long as you can, Mrs. Arbuthnot, but we both know that the geese are coming home to roost."

Hateful words, but Dorothea had read them so many times now she was becoming inured to them. Now, she asked herself, who on earth knew these things about her family? Intimate, shameful things. And why had this person chosen now to show their hand?

* * *

To her surprise, Edith not only slept well, but she woke feeling calmer than she had for many mornings. She supposed it was relief that the truth was finally out.

Her anxiety had been acute last night—the whole range of symptoms, shaking and then feeling hot and cold, pounding heart, nausea, and above all a feeling of wanting to get out of these four walls and into the fresh air, but she couldn't even do that now, could she? Where was she to go?

Then, the ridiculousness of the way her mind was going forced her to take a step back. She was being stupid. She wasn't without a home, and whatever had passed between herself and Archie, he wasn't a monster. He would never turn her out of her home. But, maybe his reaction to her coming home for the weekend would serve a useful purpose eventually. She couldn't live with her brother forever.

She had once left this village to forge out an independent existence. Maybe the fact that all these years later, she was more or less back where she started had a lot to do with this breakdown. And maybe it was high time she began to explore her options. Because, no matter what, she was going to get out of here and she was going to get better. She had gotten through worse than this.

* * *

Alicia Horton looked about her with compassion. She wasn't frightened by the damaged souls she saw walking up and down the corridor as she went into St. Bride's. Some of them were puffing hard on cigarettes and one very thin woman muttered to herself.

What had brought them to this? They had, presumably once been chuckling babies, bright-eyed young girls. She sighed as she knocked on the ward sister's office. For that matter, what had happened to sane, sensible Edith? The mind was a strange thing.

Banishing these questions, she smiled as she went towards the side-room the nurse had directed her to. "Hello, dear," she said.

She hadn't imagined the genuine flash of pleasure that crossed Edith's face. Alicia was relieved to see Edith was dressed, in a smart skirt, white blouse, and a Fair Isle-patterned cardigan. "Are you feeling better, more yourself?" she asked, going to her niece and kissing her.

"I am, I think. I still have my moments. I suppose what I feel more than anything is embarrassment. I don't know what happened to me, Aunt Alicia. My memories are hazy. I remember things feeling far away and out of my control..."

"Archie says that what happened to you is what doctors refer to as a nervous breakdown, not a precise term, I'm sure...but..." She saw her niece's expression and stopped.

"What's the matter, Edith?"

"Archie. He doesn't want me home. Who can blame him? What doctor is going to want a mad sister frightening away the patients?"

"Stop it, Edith. You know that isn't true. He may be struggling to cope with it, that's all. There are other things going on. He doesn't open up much. But, I'm not deaf or blind. I know there are rumours circulating about Mrs. Butler's death and that she left money to Archie. And I know the police are calling on him more often than anybody would like. It's nothing to do with what people-his patients, or anyone else might think. You know as well as I do, that wouldn't influence Archie for one minute. So are you sure you got it right? You didn't read more into something he may have said than...""No, Aunt Alicia, he definitely doesn't want me to come home on this weekend leave. Whether because he honestly doesn't believe I am ready, or what, I don't know, and I don't feel I can ask him."

"Well, I want you to come and stay with me. And before you object, let me tell you that I had already made this suggestion to Archie. In fact, maybe that's even what he meant..." She was being economical with the truth here, but, in the circumstances, she could be forgiven.

* * *

The laundry was warm, which was a good thing. The walls were a dark green and cream and dripped with condensation. Steam rose from huge boilers and everywhere there were sheets suspended from lines and pulleys and piled high on shelves that ran from floor to ceiling.

The smell of washing soap with that ever-present undercurrent of disinfectant hit you as soon as you went through the big doors. She hoped that they would set her to do some ironing. You couldn't get it too wrong, ironing and there had always been for her something soothing in the rhythm and repetition.

A laundry maid, Frances, supervised them all, but she was big and practical and took them all in her stride, not looking for problems, and generally, not encountering them. The size of her and the muscles on her arms would have deterred most of the inmates.

She was put to work doing the ironing and even her aching back and legs could not take away the good feeling she got from looking at the pile of ironed sheets and pillowcases and the rails of communal clothes. They would never look pretty, but she could make them look clean and she had always known that cleanliness was next to Godliness.

* * *

"Back to London, then, to interview Bertie Wooster and his sister. If there's one thing I will not tolerate, Brown, it's being lied to. Well, I know we get told porkies all the time by your common as muck criminal. But it's these supercilious bastards who think we're too stupid to cotton to them who get on my goat. We won't ring ahead this time. I don't think we should have much of a problem finding Butler in, if we go when the rest of the bloody world is working."

Brown felt a tiny spark of pity for the two Butlers.

* * *

"Esther, thank you for making up the bed in the spare room for Miss Edith...it's that...never mind..."Alicia decided that she would deal with it herself. How could she begin to tell this dour woman she wanted the room particularly nice for Edith, not just clean and dusted? She would do it herself.

Alicia was unaccountably nervous about this weekend, and she couldn't understand why. Edith's mental state didn't frighten her and anyway, she was a lot calmer and obviously better, otherwise they wouldn't be letting her out. She hated to admit it, but it probably had something to do with the presence of Esther Kirk in the house. There was something creepy about her.

And the woman had been less than gracious when told Edith was coming for the weekend. Alicia had been persuaded against her better judgment to give the woman a home and a job in the first place.

Henry Wilkes had come to see her shortly after Mrs. Butler's death. "I know you need someone to live in ideally, and you haven't been able to get someone since that young woman of yours, Grace, left to get married."

Alicia laughed, "Oh, Henry, I was very lucky to have Grace for as long as I did. It was always going to happen, a lovely young woman like that. She was going to get snapped up. You know she was the daughter of a friend of mine. And also my goddaughter. Grace lost her husband in France literally a few weeks after the wedding. I didn't want her to bury herself here in the country with me, but for some reason, she seemed to want it, to hide away from the world and heal, I suppose. I never ever thought she would stay as long as she did."

"Well, Esther Kirk is a different proposition from your Grace. But, I know she's very keen to stay in the area. She once had family in the dales, but they are long since dead and gone. You are looking for someone to live in, and to tell the truth, it would be a real act of kindness. She's been at Mrs. Butler's for so long..."

"Will you let me have a day to think about it? I'll telephone you."

Alicia had a tendency to rush into kind deeds and live to regret them. After all, having someone live in the house was completely different from employing them to come in during the day. She did think about it, but how could she know about the woman until they tried?

She had seen on her on the odd occasion, when she called on Mrs. Butler, but she had taken little notice, just thought the woman was somewhat colourless. In the end, she decided to trust Henry Wilkes' judgement and assumed Mrs. Butler wouldn't have kept her on if there had been any serious problems. But now, she wasn't so sure. Esther Kirk had obviously not liked the idea of anybody else sharing the house and had shown this by doing the bare minimum to the room. Sighing, Alicia went out to the garden, to see what she could find to put in a vase for Edith to look at when she woke in the mornings.

Chapter 7

"I don't like being lied to, Mr. Butler. I don't like being made a monkey out of."

Roderick Butler drew himself up, emphasising his height and his lankiness.

"Now, look here Inspector, draw it a bit mild. You were not lied to. I cannot always remember where I went, or when. I go to the country practically every weekend, if I'm not abroad—three weeks, six weeks. I'd forgotten, that's all."

"And your sister, had she forgotten, as well?"

"I can't speak for Caroline, Inspector. But, yes, come to think of it, we did visit mummy together and it probably wasn't quite as long as I thought before she died."

"So, you're suddenly remembering it now? All coming back, is it? Well, that's a bit of luck. Can you remember what your visit was about?"

Roderick shrugged. "Well, I suppose it cannot have been for the races, then?"

Greene shook his head.

"No, well then we made our ordinary social visit. As I told you before, we did so several times a year. Mummy was getting on a bit. She used to say that she liked having young people around, to liven the place up."

He didn't believe one word of it, but he let it pass for now. He sincerely hoped this wasn't going to be a wasted journey. As it was, they'd had to beard Roderick in the lair of work, so obviously they had chosen one of the rare days he graced Butler & Co with his presence.

"You checked with your sister? She is at home? She knows we are calling."

"Yes, Caro thinks it's all a bit of a hoot. It's almost as good as being one of those gangster pictures. He laughed in that braying way of his.

God, give me strength. Caroline was a different proposition. She didn't look happy to see them; much less, that she thought it a hoot. She shared a flat with some other girl who was apparently studying at the Slade. The word flat hardly did it justice.

Greene cast his eyes round at the experimental décor, and particularly at the size of the place. Somebody had been experimenting with colour. The ceiling had been painted a dark blue with star shapes to give, he supposed, the impression of night. There were a couple of those statue-type things...busts they were called.

"How did you find me, inspector?"

She was wearing a striped blue and white dress that reminded Greene of a deck chair. The huge sailor collar made her look out of proportion, almost sinister, which was ridiculous. How could a woman in a summer dress be sinister?"

"Your brother gave us your address," Greene answered shortly.

"Well, I must say, I think it's a bit much, Inspector. You could almost say we're being hounded. What is it this time?"

"There is a discrepancy between when you told us you visited your aunt and the time at least one witness saw you visit."

"So what? Not a crime, surely?"

Right defensive, she is. "With all due respect, Miss Butler, it's better not to go down that road. No one is saying it's a crime to visit your stepmother, or even a crime to get the timing of the visit wrong. But wasting police time with misleading information is a different thing which can have serious consequences."

Obviously undaunted, she shrugged narrow shoulders, her slenderness emphasised by the shape of the dress.

"Do you remember the visit now, Miss Butler?"

"Yes, I think so. It's not easy when you're being badgered..."

Greene gave a big sigh, indicating a patient man who was reaching the end of his tether. "No one is badgering you, Miss. It's because of the suspicious circumstances surrounding your stepmother's death, we have to delve into her life in the preceding weeks and months. You said yourself, most emphatically that there was no way that Mrs. Butler would have taken her own life. So, someone else must have given her an overdose. Those are the stark facts. I'll ask you again whether there was anything different about her when you visited, whether she mentioned any callers, or guests who had stayed with her?"

She shook her head

"We will be visiting her solicitor obviously, to look at her will, in more detail. I believe you and your brother came in for sizeable legacies?"

For the first time Caroline's expression changed. She stepped down from her high horse and looked uncomfortable. "Yes, Inspector...but no more than we expected. Daddy left our stepmother a wealthy woman. Some money was tied up in trusts for Roderick and me. It was always an unspoken understanding that after mummy's death, the bulk of the estate would come to us. After all, she didn't have anyone else. There were legacies to her staff, to a cousin and a goddaughter and a not so small legacy to Doctor Horton."

That was a long speech and it may be she was trying to deflect the next question.

"So, would it be fair to say, Miss Butler, this legacy came in useful?"

She once again shrugged the thin shoulders. "I'm sure most people would agree, Inspector, that money is always useful."

As they sat once again at the station café, waiting for the North Country train. Brown was surprised at Greene's good spirits. He'd been expecting a tirade on the visit being a waste of time.

But, as he looked with pleasure on his iced, sticky bun, Greene said, "Now that's what I call a good day's work, lad. Now I feel as though I am getting to the heart of matters. Money, never underestimate the power of money.

* * *

Edith had not known what to expect at all on this weekend out. As she sat in the passenger seat of Aunt Alicia's Morris Traveller, she reflected that the whole business of where she was actually going had been a distraction from the big thing—the big step out of the hated, but secure doors of St Bride's. Now the time had come, she was most conscious of a ball of tension somewhere between her stomach and her chest and a dry mouth.

What would they do over the weekend? Suddenly the whole weekend pass seemed an ill-conceived idea. Archie, as usual, knew what he was talking about. Would it be terrible if she were to ask Aunt Alicia to take her back? They were only through the big gates and a few hundred yards down the lane. If she just came out and said it, that she didn't feel ready and could she take her back, it wouldn't be the end of the world. The sky would not fall in.

"Aunt Alicia" she began. She stopped. No. "My mouth is dry. Nerves, I expect. You wouldn't happen to have a boiled sweet in the glove compartment?"

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry but I haven't...I have an idea, though. The Old Schoolhouse?"

Edith nodded. The Old Schoolhouse was just that, but it had been turned into a country tearoom several years ago, by a couple who wanted to try country living. Rumour had it the man had been gassed in the war and shell-shocked. His nerves had been affected, and he developed an aversion to noise, smoke, and city life. The wife was a sweet woman who did most of the work at the front of the shop while he helped with maintenance and the heavy, behind the scenes work.

Edith's heart slowed and the knot in her insides loosened. This would be perfect. A bit of a stepping-stone between the hospital and home. It would give her a half an hour to adjust a little.

She stirred her tea and looked at her aunt who was chatting happily. You could have thought she was prattling to fill the gaps and stay any awkwardness. But, Edith didn't think so. Her aunt did not seem discombobulated at the situation. In turn, this was making Edith relax. Suddenly, whether Archie's reasons for fobbing her off on Aunt Alicia were or were not disingenuous didn't matter. Maybe, it would actually turn out to be a blessing.

"Archie thinks he may be able to come for dinner tonight," said Aunt Alicia.

Edith smiled. "It will be nice to see him, nice to have a meal in a proper dining room and have a real conversation.

* * *

Archie Horton checked his wallet one more time and secured the house. He had spoken to Maybury, who had agreed to deal with any emergencies. It was about time he returned a favour.

All day, Archie had been restless, felt the need to get away from this infernal countryside. Strange, how the very thing that normally soothed and sustained the spirit, could sometimes drive you out of your mind. London wasn't only calling at him, it was shouting. He wanted to smell the smog and the traffic, feel the grime on his skin and the rush of people who neither knew him nor cared about him. He craved that feeling of melding into the crowd. That was not all he craved. But, it was probably all part and parcel of the same need.

He had rung ahead to book a bed in the low-key club he had joined, full of ideas above his station, when he'd first become a services medic. It would suffice to sleep in, which was all he intended to do there. He filled up at the petrol station on the edge of the village, giving evasive answers to Bert, the old boy, one of his patients who worked the petrol pumps. One of his many low-paid efforts to eke out a living.

"And your sister, Doctor? She hasn't been too well, I hear? Is she on the mend? The wife and meself was sorry to hear about her troubles." His forehead creased in genuine concern rather than prurience.

"She's on the mend, Bert, and thanks for asking. As a matter of fact, she's gone to stay with our auntie this weekend. Company for her, as it were."

Oh, damn and blast and bloody hell. He had completely forgotten this weekend pass business, and he'd also forgotten he was supposed to be joining them for dinner tonight. He hesitated and wiped the windscreen to buy a few more minutes thinking time. But, he knew what he would do He continued on his journey south. He would ring from London and make his excuses.

Chapter 8

Cathy's working day dragged like never before. Miss Prudence, in a navy-blue cardigan over a beige blouse, never moved from her perch behind the post office counter. Normally, she did leave Cathy in charge, having trained her to deal with the huge variety of forms and queries needed even in a small place like this.

"Do you like your job, I mean really, really like it?" her friend, Elsie asked her when they had still been good friends, before she'd drifted away into life in the servants' hall.

She considered her answer now as she made work for herself, dusting shelves that held the flour and baking ingredients, putting everything back neatly. "I like it well enough, I suppose. I like the feeling of earning my own bit of money and it's quite lively in the shop. Interesting, you know, all the people coming in. You get to know who's always cheerful, who's always moaning and the Misses Sowerby are kind to me. Give me cake, praise me when I get things right. But, still..."

She'd hesitated, not exactly sure what she meant, and even more uncertain about how to put it. "I suppose I want to see more of life."

Ooh," said Elsie, with a touch of sarcasm. "Listen to Miss High and Mighty. So, what do ye mean exactly, Cath? Go abroad or something, or down to London?"

Cathy hesitated again. It had been a bad idea to start this conversation with Elsie, who obviously didn't have a clue what she meant. "I don't know. I don't want my life to be like me mam's I suppose. You know, marry some lad from the village, have kids, work hard, and never see a bit of life."

"You don't want to get married, have children?"

"Well, I'm not saying never, but not until I've seen a bit of the world outside the dales."

"I see plenty of life in the big house. Ladies, lords...all sorts up for the races, stopping off on their way to Scotland for the shooting. See all sorts I do...some of it would probably shock you."

Cathy hadn't been sure whether that bit was true, or whether Elsie was trying to keep her end up. But, the conversation had left her even more unsettled.

"The shelves will do for now, dear. Why not get home early and surprise your mother. It's her afternoon off, isn't it?"

This brought Cathy out of her reverie, but it startled her too. Not in all the time she'd worked in the shop, had such a thing been known. Her heart lurched. They weren't sacking her were they? That would be terrible. What would her father say? "I haven't done anything wrong, Miss Prudence?"

Prudence smiled; the first smile Cathy had had out of her for days. "No, not at all, child. I need to have a quiet word with my sister, that's all. And you have done a grand job tidying and dusting. We'll see you at eight, as usual in the morning. Look on it as a bonus, and be off before I change my mind."

But, she was smiling. However, after Cathy collected her coat and bag from the back and headed off down the small lane leading to the road home, she heard raised voices.

The feeling of unease persisted, distracting her from her usual daydreams and observations of the countryside. She and John had walked to school, in the summer, through the fields. It wasn't until she was a lot older Cathy began to realise how much about the natural world they had absorbed along the way.

They saw the snowdrops being replaced by crocuses, which reminded her of some of the sweets she now doled out of glass jars in the shop. Then would come the daffodils and celandines, then bluebells and the lush grass verges and ripening berries. This had been in happier days, the time when her father had been down south doing his mysterious job.

But her unease wasn't just about her father. It wasn't as cosy and nice as it had been at home, but she was almost used to his moods and sarcasm and the way he talked to her mother as though she was stupid. It was probably the way he was with John that hurt the most, always ridiculing and mocking him. But, there was something else going on in this village. Something new.

She had heard a whisper about anonymous letters. It had shocked Cathy and given her a cold feeling in her stomach. She had too much imagination, true but the thought there was somebody like that in the village, someone disturbed, gave her the creeps. In fact, this person, this woman...It would be a woman, who probably came in the shop. Cathy had found herself wondering sometimes...could it be her...I wonder if it's her?

But the three safest women in her world were behaving oddly. At the shop, something had changed in the atmosphere. She'd felt it this morning, when she'd let herself in. In fact, she'd felt it each morning for several weeks now. It was as if she was breaking into a private conversation. It was hard to remember what it had been like before, so much had this sour air infected the shop.

She'd tried telling her mam about it. "There's something not right, mam. I think there's a bad atmosphere between Miss Marjorie and Miss Prudence. I don't think they are properly even speaking to each other."

"Oh, Cathy, two maiden ladies, sisters living together, there's bound to be the odd fall out. The best thing you can do is to keep your head down and busy yourself with your work. See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil."

"You don't understand Mam. It's not a bit like them. They always get on so well. I feel a bit of a piggy in the middle. They even talk through me."

Her mother sighed. "Cathy, believe me, you haven't got a lot to complain about. I have a nice job now, but when I was your age, I was on my knees scrubbing and lighting fires from six o'clock in the morning. Mind your good job and whatever you do, don't repeat any of this to anyone else."

"Oh, mam, what do you think? Of course I am not going to say anything." She'd been a bit hurt that her mother had dismissed her worries and thought she needed to tell her to keep her mouth shut about what went on in the shop. Why were people always assuming that she didn't know when to keep her mouth shut? There were plenty of things she saw and heard that she kept to herself.

* * *

The tension mounted as seven thirty and then seven forty-five came and went. The Esther woman was hovering, making it obvious, at least to Edith's mind that they were holding her up. Mind you, goodness knows from what.

The tension was broken by the telephone's ringing. Thank God, he's been called out on an emergency and he is not going to be able to make it. Up until that moment, she'd not realised how tense she was and how much she was actually dreading meeting her brother after their scene at St. Bride's.

Aunt Alicia's expression was troubled when she came back into the sitting room. "Oh, Edith, I'm sorry my dear, but I'm afraid Archie has got to let us down. He's had to go down to London, of all things. He didn't say why, but he was very sorry—a previous engagement that had completely escaped his mind.

"Not to worry," said Edith, lightly. She was still relieved, but annoyed too. Forgot—how likely was that? Another one of his trips down to London, then. These were a regular occurrence. Every couple of months or so, he headed off. He'd said something about meeting up with some of the men from his former regiment and some of the medical staff. Edith had taken care to ask no questions. She was aware their living arrangements would only work if each had some privacy.

Still, dinner would be more relaxed with just herself and Aunt Alicia. With another of her lightening changes of mood, she felt suddenly cheerful—maybe the weekend would go well, after all.

* * *

Archie Horton felt the familiar excitement as he entered the large entrance hall of Almacks. Everything was familiar, the feel of the place, the air of expectancy, the whiff of expensive tobacco, and the quiet-footed porters.

The receptionist gave him a discreet smile of recognition, a smile he could choose to respond to or ignore. He smiled back.

For the next couple of hours he got his injection of excitement—the excitement he'd once experienced in the field hospital waiting for the next lot of wounded men. Sick with apprehension, the surge of adrenaline focusing his brain to that state of single—minded concentration that drove everything else from his mind. His beloved wife, his own safety, and the futility and obscenity of war, all could be forgotten while he concentrated on the job in hand. It left him lightheaded from exhaustion, but curiously at peace. Nothing in peacetime, certainly nothing in Yorkshire had ever been able to match that feeling.

But then one of his meetings with his old comrades had for some reason, ended up here. He could remember feeling exasperation. Couldn't they have found somewhere better, more entertaining, less futile than a gambling club?

He felt nothing; he had neither the time nor the money for this sort of place. But, out of boredom, he had joined in and found once again the intense concentration, the forgetting of his troubles, the satiation, and the exhaustion. He'd had beginner's luck, more than counter-balanced on his later visits. He reasoned he wasn't a gambling addict. He didn't take stupid risks. He certainly didn't do any of this on his own doorstep. But he recognised that when life became difficult, this was the place that drew him.

* * *

Cathy's mother had looked almost put out to see her. Her face was flushed as she came downstairs.

"You're home early, lass. Are you poorly?"

"No, Miss Prudence said I was to go early. She and her sister needed to have a talk, or something."

She almost added that she had heard raised voices, but held her tongue. She didn't want to be accused of gossiping.

"Well, put the kettle on. I'm doing a bit of tidying upstairs. John'll be back from school, shortly. And your father home from work. I need to get started on the taters."

All was back to normal, it seemed. Her mother was her bustling self again. But, she had not imagined her secretive, agitated mood when she'd come back from work early. She went to put the kettle on, and while her mam was upstairs, she went to the outhouse for a pan of potatoes. There was a pile of old sacks in the corner, old hessian sacks that had stored the chicken corn and been saved. Say what you like about her father, and Cathy reckoned you could say a lot, he was a tidy man.

"Army training," he's say full of self-importance if anyone commented that he was "well-trained," by which they meant, unusually neat in his ways, for a man.

The Hessian sacks were neatly folded in the corner. One was out of place, in the middle. That's how neat this place is. One sack a bit out of place and you notice.

Maybe being surrounded by such tidiness was what made her well organised in the shop. Then she noticed something else, just over the jutting out sack. It was the same colour but somehow different—an envelope. Without thinking further, she went across to the stack and pulled out the envelope. It was packed, thick.

Cathy's heart beat nineteen to the dozen. She checked to see if it was sealed. Yes, but there was a corner that wasn't fast down. Maybe, she could peel it away without tearing the flap. She began gently easing the corner away.

"What the hell, do you think you are doing?" Her father's voice was harsh and his shadow menacingly dark in the doorway of the outhouse. He was in his working clothes, a flat cap at an angle on his thick, curly hair."

* * *

After a dinner of lamb cutlets, followed by a blackberry and apple pie, Edith was sleepy, but not the unaccountable tiredness that usually hit her these days. This was a more relaxed feeling. She relished the feeling of being at home, or at least in a proper home, away from the sounds and smells of the hospital. But, she longed for bed and didn't know quite what to say to her auntie. It was barely nine o' clock, but her eyes were closing.

"You're tired, my dear. I think the best plan might be to have an early night and then tomorrow, lunch out and a drive. I mean into the countryside, out into Wensleydale."

Edith smiled. It sounded great, normal, pleasant. This was the first thing she had looked forward to for ages.

"All right, auntie. She hesitated. "Auntie Alicia, I can't thank you enough for everything." Her voice was a bit tremulous and she took a deep breath.

Her aunt held her hand up to stay her. "Edith, it's the best tonic ever for me having you to stay. You're the one doing me the favour."

Aunt Alicia had shown Edith to her room as soon as she'd come to the house and given her the chance to unpack her small bag. She'd looked around the room and smiled. There was a patchwork quilt on the bed and a vase of very late sweet peas on the dressing table.

Vita Sackville-West's, The Edwardians was on the bedside table on top of a small stack of magazines. A jug of water was covered by a small circle of muslin weighed down by coloured beads. Now, she undressed and got into bed, finding a hot-water bottle comfortingly tucked into the bottom. She considered the book and then settled for one of the magazines. She turned to the story, which she was sure would be a bit of romantic escapism, when a light tap on the door startled her. "Come in," She felt at a disadvantage, being in bed. But, as she was sure it would be Aunt Alicia, didn't feel it mattered too much.

However, there was another pause. Then the door opened softly. That woman stood there, Esther. Edith's mouth was dry and the hammering of her heart seemed to start at the base of her throat. "What is it, what do you want?" she said, knowing that she probably sounded abrupt. She cleared her throat and sat up straight. It was ridiculous to feel at such a disadvantage.

"Oh. Miss Horton, I was just checking that you're all right, that you have everything you need. I know Miss Horton, Miss Alicia Horton, I mean worries. I don't like to see her worried. I see that as my main role here, to keep her from worrying.

"Well, I'm perfectly all right, thank you. Hoping to go to sleep, now." She didn't try to keep the coolness out of her voice. Whether it was the woman's proprietorial attitude to Aunt Alicia, or whether it was her general air of creeping about the place, wasn't clear She just knew Esther Kirk made her feel uneasy.

She wouldn't sleep. She started fretting over Archie as soon as she turned the light out. Where was he really and what were these trips to London all about? She turned the pillow over so the cool side was against her cheek. As she was drifting into a doze, her body relaxing, Matthew came into her mind. She turned on the bedside light and picked up the heavy book.

Chapter 9

"I said what do you think you are doing?"

Cathy was frightened. Her father had never been like this before—moody, difficult and mocking, but never quietly furious like this. Also, it was always either her mother or John at the other end of his anger, not her.

"Nothing, I was fetching in some potatoes, for mam. I saw something." She pointed at the envelope. "There, look, an envelope. I haven't even opened it yet...I wondered what was in it, that's all..."

"Well, don't wonder. That envelope or what's in it has nothing to do with you, do you understand, our Cath?"

His anger had subsided a bit, thank God. Cathy had read the phrase "weak with relief." Now she felt it. She hadn't realised how absolutely terrified she had been. It was stupid. What did she think he was going to do to her? Hit her? Kill her? She was being stupid.

"I didn't actually do anything wrong, dad..." The realisation of how irrational her terror was had lent her a bit of courage. And, no one ever stood up to him. Her mother opted for a quiet life and John was too cowed. Dimly, Cathy realised that may be at least part of the problem.

He ignored this. "Get the potatoes and go back into the house. Say nothing about any envelopes, or about this conversation."

His words didn't hold a threat, just the certainty she would do as he said. "All right, dad."

"Dad's on his way in," she said to her mother.

"Oh dear, he's early, and I'm all behind with things. Give us a hand, Cathy, and start scrubbing them taters."

But her father did not make any comments about having to wait for his dinner or say much else. He was unusually quiet and preoccupied.

"I'm going down the Dalesman for a pint," he said about nine o' clock.

Her mother nodded and actually asked him if he was all right for money. There was nothing unusual about him taking some of her mother's earnings to pour down his throat if he was short, but she didn't usually offer.

Cathy went up to bed with her library book, leaving John still bent over his homework, the lamplight making the shadows on his face even more noticeable. I don't understand them...my mam, my father, the Misses Sowerby. Life had been a lot more peaceful all those years when her dad had been down south doing whatever it was he reckoned to be doing. It had been mam, John, her and their few animals—simple and safe.

* * *

Archie called on Sunday morning. He'd timed it for when Aunt Alicia had returned from Ellbeck and church.

He crossed the hall and gave Edith a swift kiss on the cheek, went into the sitting room, where Aunt Alicia was warming her hands at the fire and kissed her too. Unusually demonstrative. Smacks of a guilty conscience. He was charm itself, too, a side of himself he kept in cold storage most of the time.

"I owe you both a big apology," he said.

"You do," said Aunt Alicia.

But, Edith could tell by her tone she was softening towards the prodigal nephew.

"It was a regimental thing in London, a bit of a get-together. We went to a club...cards and so forth," he added. "I'm afraid it had completely slipped my mind, when I agreed to come to you for dinner," He waited, expectantly.

"Very well, then. But I was cross, to be cancelled like that at hardly any...well...no notice, really. And Edith's first night home as well."

He turned to his sister and she noticed there was something almost feverish in his face, as though he were still drunk...or even...that he had taken something. She'd seen that sort of thing before, in the war. Doctors and nurses taking something, maybe for a genuine reason at first...then...She shook her head in an attempt to rid her mind of these futile and disturbing thoughts.

"It's good to see you sis. How did you sleep? How do you feel?"

"I slept reasonably, perhaps not all that well, but I feel all right. Better than I hoped, I suppose. The thing is I'm supposed to go back about teatime. Aunt Alicia will take me she says. I can't say I'm looking forward to it. Maybe I'll talk to Dr. Uxbridge and get some idea when he is thinking of discharging me. I don't feel as if I need to be in St Bride's any longer."

"Now, Edie. Don't run before you can walk, give yourself a chance."

She couldn't help herself, "Don't patronise me Archie. Surely I'm the best judge of how I am feeling and when I am ready for going home?"

Archie shook his head, in a way that infuriated her. "Edith, you should know that the very nature of this sort of breakdown is that the patient is often not the best judge of what is good for her or him."

"Don't talk down to me, Archie. I am not one of your bloody patients..." She caught sight of the expression crossing her aunt's face and was appalled at herself and Archie, too. Maybe he was right. Maybe what had happened to her was a clear sign living together in a peaceable fashion was no longer possible. "Anyway," she said now, trying to trivialise the disagreement. "Aunt Alicia is not going to want to listen to the two of us squabbling on a Sunday morning."

The shame-faced look on Archie's face, and Aunt Alicia's smile told her she'd struck the right note. I'm going to have to watch what I say and how I say it. How appalling. Maybe that was one of the worst legacies of this breakdown.

* * *

Archie had driven Edith back to the hospital in the end. He sort of insisted on it.

"Well, in any case, stay for lunch, Archie, it's a big enough joint, and we will be having it early...Miss Kirk goes off to her prayer meeting this afternoon."

Archie looked at her, "Prayer meeting? Not church or chapel, then?"

"No, Esther belongs to a non-conformist congregation, quite a few members locally, not nearly so many as they were, though. Did you know your father used to attend her family, years ago?"

Archie laughed. "My dear Aunt Alicia, if you knew how many times I hear that. Every other person I meet within fifteen miles was a patient of dad's. It's a lot to live up to. Most of them view him as a saint."

The words were lightly spoken, but she heard an edge. Stepping into a father's shoes was never the easiest route and she wondered, not for the first time, if Archie ever regretted it.

Edith didn't do justice to the roast. Her stomach was already churning at going back. It wasn't real. Had this breakdown happened? Surely, she could still pull back from the brink? What on earth was she doing as a patient at the local asylum?

This wasn't where people like her ended up. People like she and Archie were the fortunate, the ones with the advantages, a bit of money a stable background. They had both come through the war without a scratch, they had suffered loss, but so had millions of others. If she couldn't overcome the thoughts and feelings that plagued her, how did others do it?

She hugged her auntie and was dismayed at the threat of tears as she thanked her for everything. With hindsight, this had been the best plan. She'd been away from the village and the chance of bumping into Archie's patients. It had been peaceful here. The only jarring note was the housekeeper, but Edith told herself that in this she was letting her imagination run away. Esther Kirk was no more than a slightly odd spinster. A bit like myself, she told herself. Maybe that's all she needed to do, laugh at herself a bit more, take life more lightly.

"Julia rang me at Aunt Alicia's. She's going to come in to see me, tomorrow possibly, or Tuesday. It's something to look forward to," She spoke as much to pass the journey as anything, just a bit of idle chatter, and it was easier to talk in the car, something about the intimate space and about not having to face the other person, she supposed.

"That'll be nice, but, it seems Jules doesn't think I'm doing my bit. She took a bit of a pot shot at me the other day. Always was a bit of a firebrand, our Jules."

Edith stiffened. Archie's comment shocked her. She wasn't sure whether it was because Julia had spoken to Archie. Lord, how bad was that? Her friend having to plead her case.

It was enough to make her angry. Or, was it because Archie seemed to be needling her, trying to start something? What was the matter with him? Well, she wasn't going to take the bait. So, she said nothing. It didn't take a lot to send her to the edge of the precipice these days. She was not going to go back to St. Bride's in a state. It was bad enough going back at all, but she was going to do her best to be in a calm state of mind, when she did so."

"I should have come in, I know, sis. I find this very hard to cope with, you know? I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to know the right thing to say—but it isn't that simple."

Still, Edith said nothing. It struck her this was more about Archie than about her.

"Well, say something, Edie. Don't just sit there, looking reproachful."

That did get to her. "Archie, will you pull over for a minute?"

"Of course, are you ill? Are you all right?" His voice was now full of concern.

"Yes, but I soon won't be, if you continue trying to start an argument."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. Don't use the fact that I have had a breakdown either to make out that I'm not being rational. You are deliberately provoking me, as though you are trying to get a reaction. What on earth is all that about, Archie?"

"Nothing, I don't mean to be like that. I'm sorry, Edith. I start by trying to do and say the right thing, but something else comes out of my mouth. I don't understand it, and I suppose one of your analysts might even say that is why I have not been in to see you. There, I've admitted it. I did put off visiting. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I know this has been tough on you too. I know a bit about how this sort of thing affects families, not just the worry, but the shame and embarrassment as well. No, don't try to deny it. May as well face a few facts. You're an important local figure. People respect you and value your opinion. A sister in the nut house doesn't suit the image..."

"Oh, Edith. That honestly isn't it. Well, certainly not the main issue," he qualified.

Archie had always had a tendency to be literal.

"I don't want to upset you."

"You're upsetting me by being like this, blowing hot and cold, being hostile and not telling me why."

"Fair enough. You have a point. It's the business about Matthew Taylor. That's what threw me. It was completely...well, irrational. It was all in your head, Edith. I don't understand it. To be honest, and I repeat I don't want to hurt you, but it frightened me. I mean it was in your imagination...the whole affair, Edith."

* * *

Edith told Archie she didn't need him to come in with her, didn't need him to carry her bag, anything stupid like that.

"I'll be in tomorrow afternoon," he said. His voice was urgent.

Edith hadn't responded to what he had said about Matthew and he hadn't pushed the conversation any further either.

So, now she ate in the patient's dining room, at the same table as a young woman with haunted eyes surrounded by black circles. Her thin wrists looked vulnerable in her bulky cardigan, her skin and hair looked lank and greasy. She was suffering from a post-natal condition. But, she had wondered if there was more to it. The girl was half-Belgian and had moved up to Yorkshire to be with her husband who'd met her while with his regiment in the South of England.

Edith had noticed the way her visitors were. Kind, but overpowering. She wondered if the girl's breakdown had been her mind's convoluted way of making her step out from under the weight of family. She'd previously tried to engage Della in conversation, but it had been hard work. Somehow, this evening she couldn't do it. She smiled and exchanged a few comments, telling the young woman she'd spent the weekend with her aunt. Della smiled, the first spontaneous smile Edith had seen from her. Maybe she was getting better.

Would Della be allowed to forget her illness and get on with life with her husband and baby, or whether her in-laws would always remember it, store it up?

She took the two tablets given to her by the night nurse who had just come on duty, and smiled at her, in case anyone would write in her notes that her mood was low after her weekend pass, and went into her side-room. She was so sure that she would not sleep.

The book lay in the bottom of her case with a note from Aunt Alicia. "There is nothing as frustrating as leaving a book that you are enjoying. I loved having you here and I hope that you will come and stay with me again as soon as ever you can. It was lovely to see you looking so much better, Yours affectionately, Aunt Alicia."

The night nurse looked in on her and asked if she was all right.

"Yes, thank you. Tired."

"You're bound to be, it's a shock to the system, being back out there. Not to mention the build-up, the wondering if it will go well. How did it go, by the way?"

"Well, I think. Strange, but well."

"Good to see you're on the right road now, Edith, on the home straight."

For a second, Edith wondered if she should ask the nurse to stay with her for a while, talk to her about the reactions of patients' relatives, about Archie. She had an inkling having a family member mentally ill might have a pretty devastating effect on the others. She wanted to ask if the way Archie was behaving with her was normal. She suppressed the urge.

It would be disloyal to Archie, and what's more she was tired out, far too exhausted to engage in this sort of deep discussion."

"Good night, nurse," she said.

She was far away in a safe, warm and joy-filled place when the scream woke her. She sat up, her heart beating fast. Someone was screaming—a woman. She remembered where she was, but that wasn't reassuring. This sort of disturbance had happened before. What if the nurses can't deal with it? What if someone gets hurt? She got out of bed, heard a bell sounding and then running feet.

She opened the door and went out into the corridor, leading to the long ward. The polished floor shone in the dim light. She saw a group of nurses, crowd around a white clad figure. The wailing went on, not so much screaming now as a desolate, keening sound. The frightening thing was that there was no other noise. The nurses were doing whatever it was they were doing to subdue the woman in total silence.

Then all the sound stopped, "Go back to bed, Edith. There's nothing for you to worry about. It's only Maggie, having one of her turns." The woman who spoke was little with a fierce little face and a navy uniform. Edith had caught glimpses of her before—the night sister. You could set your watch by the times she came around every night, one a.m. and then four thirty a.m., but now she'd obviously come in response to the bell, the nurses' way of calling for help.

This place was unsafe. It was like the depths of hell, full of anguish and fear. Edith lay still, tried to breathe deeply and slowly. But her heart continued to hammer. A fizzing feeling surged through her, the strangest ever feeling, one that had hit her before, but something she'd never found the words to describe. It felt like the hairs on her arms, the tiny hairs all over her body were standing on end. She clenched her hands around handfuls of sheet. I want to run. I want to get out from these walls and breathe in the cold clean air and run. If I could step out of my body and escape myself...but, she couldn't.

If Dr. Uxbridge was here, now, this minute, then I could explain it to him. But, please God, the feeling would subside and when she got to see the doctor next, it would seem too strange and too difficult to describe. Gradually, the ward went back to being quiet and her heart rate slowed. Just feeling normal again was like being handed the sweepstake. But, how long, she wondered until this happened again?

* * *

Greene barked at Brown. "You need to be moving faster than this, lad. What about that Braithwaite fellow, have you tracked him down? He's a good-for-nothing, that one, but all the same, he worked for the Butler woman, driving and a bit of general gardening, that sort of thing. He does bits for the Arbuthnots, too. Must be a shortage of that sort of labour, I suppose. Never seems to be doing very much work, at the back of it all, as far as I can see. And that other woman, Mary Whitchurch, is it? Surely, she's back from her sister's now, or wherever she's been? I suppose you did talk to the right one first, as it turns out—the lovely Stella. I need the timing of that visit confirmed though. I'm going back to speak to the Kirk woman. I'll do that myself, after lunch today—think I'll get more out of her, a woman like that, she'd 'ave you for breakfast, eh, Brown?

* * *

Julia Etherington confronted her husband over breakfast. "Giles, we can't go on like this. Please talk to me. I know you're not happy, not sleeping. I've heard you get up, in the night."

He put down his paper, and looked at her, tired eyes in a washed-out face, greying blond hair, greased and brushed, tamed and disciplined. The look was angry irritation, and Julia regretted speaking. Her words had been too female, too demanding.

"The only problem with me, is you, Julia."

The cruelty was like being hit, and she just stopped a gasp.

"Why can't you leave a fellow alone, eh? All this prodding about in a chap's soul, why can't you leave well alone? I've a bad night or two. What of it? Haven't you got enough to occupy you?"

No, she wanted to shout at him.

"I mean the house, the children, the village, the...I don't know, whatever it is you women occupy yourselves with?"

Julia left the rest of her toast, pushing the plate away from her. Before she could get up from the table and leave with a bit of dignity, Giles beat her to it.

He threw his napkin on the table, and resolutely stood. "By the way, been meaning to tell you, I'm going to London next week for a few days, see Purcell about the business, catch up with a few of the boys. Can honestly say I'm looking forward to it...get away from women's eternal bloody naggin'"

Julia didn't think she imagined the note of triumphant spite, or did she? Was she exaggerating everything? She sat stock still, fighting with the tears that were stinging the back of her eyes. I should try being angry rather than sad. One sure thing, sad, or trying to make him feel guilty didn't work. It's futile. We've fallen into a pattern. I try to be understanding, he gets angry. I get upset. It's pointless. How did we get from where we once were to where we are now?

That question being the most futile of all. And remembering how sweet, how earnestly loving Giles once had been completely undid her. I have to change my response, change a lot of things, maybe.

* * *

She went to the laundry six days a week and after a while it had seemed she'd always known this place, always stood testing the heat of the iron and smoothing and folding sheets and pillowcases. There was little talk—ten women worked and they were hard-put to keep up with the work.

She had aspirations by then. It amazed her how even your dreams could sink down to suit your conditions. She'd had big dreams once, but they had about ruined her, so it was safer and somehow cleaner to keep them within the bounds of possibility. Now, her dream was to move away from the steam and the smell of soap and to be set on in the sewing-room. That would be easier. She would be sitting down for one thing, and by now, the constant backache was beginning to bother her.

But, she would bide her time. She studied the other women and she studied the warders and she was beginning to see that everything in this place was about keeping your head down.

She saw how trusted patients were treated. The boundary between them and the staff was a lot looser. All the energy that had been focused on getting by, in putting one foot in front of the other now became focused on making her life here as good as possible. Because, she'd come to the conclusion that when she eventually left this place, it was going to be feet first.

Chapter 10

Inspector Greene was a quiet, introspective drinker. He hated the whole police habit of going to "police pubs" where colleagues let their hair down, and sometimes, in Greene's view, behaved every bit as bad as some of their customers. Greene, could, on a state occasion, be persuaded into a game of dominoes. But, what he liked best was a quiet few pints of ale, with his pipe, and a newspaper for company. The trouble about visiting the local was no one trusted you. They all greeted you, and you may be offered a drink on the house, but everyone was on their best behaviour, taking pains to talk of everyday matters, making out they were virtuous and hardworking and would never dream of putting a foot wrong. This was why, when at all possible, Greene headed for either a quiet corner of the pub, or better still, if it was empty, the snug.

Jones, the landlord of the Dalesman, was one of the better pub owners. He kept an orderly house, but was not adverse to the odd bit of gossip, without being a big mouth. Greene's sort of man. Tonight, after ordering his pint, Greene went straight into the snug, seeing, with relief that it was empty. He had his paper for company and sincerely hoped that he would be undisturbed. He wanted to do a bit of thinking. It was obvious from the tension in the place, though, that something was up. He sighed; they had better not involve him. Whatever the trouble that was brewing, Jones could deal with it.

"Mr. Arbuthnot, very drunk, I'm afraid," said Jones, out of the corner of his mouth, passing Greene his second pint.

Greene sighed again. What does he expect me to do about it? By now, he could hear for himself the fruity tones of the representative of the local gentry.

"My dear chap...you'll have a drink with me, old chap..." His voice came through clear in the hushed air of the bar.

"I'll 'ave one with ye, sir. A drink to old comrades and all that," said in uxorious tones.

"Yes, of course you were there too, old chap. Sad business. Young chaps, died with honour, eh? Eh?" There was a murmur of agreement.

Greene's fury rose. He wasn't even sure where to direct it. But he didn't like what was going on." He recognised Braithwaite's voice, the one agreeing to have a drink with Arbuthnot.

I bet Braithwaite never says no to a drink, especially if it's free. Trying to block it out, he leaned back on the wooden bench and took a long swallow from his pint. He shook his paper out and attempted to read. It was no good. Singing had broken out...some forsaken patriotic rubbish. He'd go and take the old boy home. No, he wouldn't. Arbuthnot had lost two sons in the War—maybe it consoled him to listen to this sort of thing. Maybe it was easier than reading Dulche et Decorum Est and the other more realistic accounts from the front line.

It was no good. He found himself drinking his beer too quickly and unable to take in what it said in the newspaper. He put his pipe back into his pocket and strolled through to the public bar. "You've had enough, I'd say, sir," he directed his comment at Arbuthnot, ignoring the other men, seated around the fire and on the high stools. Braithwaite was leaning against the bar, a cigarette in hand, cap at an angle on the thick, curly brown hair, and lean and mean looking.

"Oh, Inspector, my good man. Didn't see you there. Can I get you a snifter?"

"Not now, Mr. Arbuthnot, but I can give you a lift home. I happen to be going in that direction."

Something must have struck even the man's befuddled brain as he frowned and said, "I say, you wouldn't be coming to the house to see myself, would you? Surely not? Or my good lady?"

There was a suppressed laugh.

Greene looked at the men in turn, but said nothing. "As a matter of fact, we are doing the rounds, and yes, I was going out to have a word with yourself and your wife. So, you are welcome to come with me." The air in the pub changed when he said the bit about doing the rounds. A couple of backsides shifted on their stools, attention was paid to the lighting of pipes and cigarettes.

The smell of whisky emanating from the man was enough to ignite the place, should a spark be struck. Greene concentrated on his driving. In fact, the smell was sickly, with an undercurrent of vomit. He cast a sidelong glance at Arbuthnot who was slumped, into the collar of his tweed coat. What a state to get into and more pity the man's wife, and himself for being the one delivering this specimen to her doorstep.

A maid opened the door, white cap and apron, the lot. Greene had left Arbuthnot in the car, thinking it judicious to prepare the ground

"Is Mrs. Arbuthnot at home?" he asked the girl.

"Would you like to step inside?" she said.

Bloody hell. Next thing is she'll be asking me for a calling card and I'll be shown into the drawing room, to await her ladyship. "My name is Inspector Greene and I need to see Mrs. Arbuthnot, sharpish, if you please. Like a good girl," he added.

With that, she looked frightened and backed into the corridor, far enough for him to step into the hallway. It was unremarkable, what you would expect from a house this size apart from the stained window, large and beautiful on the half-landing ahead of him. The late evening autumn sunlight coming through it lit the hallway and the stairwell. Beautiful, thought Greene, in a moment of aesthetic appreciation.

The woman coming towards him, from the other end of the corridor was familiar to him. She presented the prizes at the school, the usual sort of lady of the manor thing. Her face was pinched with worry and regret pierced him. He was a prize idiot and no mistake. This woman had had her share of bad news brought to her door. No wonder she would think the worse when told an inspector had come knocking on the door.

Oh well, cursing himself for a fool wasn't going to do any good now. "There's nothing to worry about, Mrs. Arbuthnot. It's a bit awkward, but I'm afraid your husband was in the Dalesman, and is the worse for wear. Seemed it would be the wisest thing to bring him home."

Her shoulders slumped and her mouth tightened, but only for a few seconds.

Then she pulled herself together. You could almost see her square her shoulders. "Oh dear, I'm sorry you have been troubled inspector. Is he outside in your car?"

Something told Greene this was not the first time he had been brought home in this state. "He is. I thought it best to warn you first."

"Thank you. Well, Dunne, the gardener and handyman, lives in, I mean in the lodge. But, I know he is in the kitchen. He is married, you see, to the cook. Sorry inspector. All this is irrelevant. Chattering on to cover my embarrassment...I'll go and get him to give you a hand with my husband, if you would be good enough..."

"Yes, yes, of course Mrs. Arbuthnot."

She was waiting at the foot of the stairs when he came down, having delivered the old man to his bedroom with the help of the handyman and left him to it. Dunne. He looked capable and probably well used to putting his boss to bed. Wonder what that does to the master, servant relationship? "Inspector Greene, you'll have a cup of tea?"

Back to the Dalesman for a quiet pint, more like. But, the truth was he had no appetite for it anymore or the bone-headed dolts that were in there, this evening. "That would be nice, Mrs. Arbuthnot, thank you."

She led him into what seemed to be her sitting room, not grand but classy, with photographs, books and flowers detracting from what might need a bit of redecorating. Still, from what he gathered, these coves didn't go in a lot for redecorating their houses. They worried about the roof, the danger of dry rot, and their gardens.

"I'm sorry about that, Inspector Greene and very grateful to you for ensuring that Arthur got home safely."

He liked her. There was no bluster or shilly-shallying. She knew he knew and that was all there was to it. Must be awkward for her though, in a place like this. And, the Dalesman? Whatever possessed Arbuthnot? Talk about doing it on your own doorstep.

She seemed to read his mind. "Arthur normally does his drinking at home, Inspector. But every now and then, he takes himself off into the village. I don't know why. I wonder if it is because of the boys...an association with some of the village lads in the ranks you know, who were sent off at the same time as Charles and Edward.

"But, no doubt that is fanciful. Maybe it's that he wants a bit of lively company? The longer I live, Inspector, the more I am surprised by human nature."

She hesitated and Greene was sure as eggs are eggs there was something she wanted to tell him. Then the girl came through with a trolley of tea and china and so on. He saw there were what looked like homemade biscuits and dark fruitcake. Mrs. Dunne, the cook's handiwork no doubt.

"Were you acquainted with Mrs. Butler?"

She smiled and despite her age, it was a remarkably beautiful smile.

"Elizabeth? Yes. She was like a breath of fresh air in Ellbeck, Inspector. Well travelled, you know. She had lived in London, America, gone out to work. Had a wonderful sense of humour. She was, Inspector, one of the happiest people I knew."

"I am hearing all good things about the lady, I have to say,"

"That sounds like you are making enquiries. You don't mean to tell me there was something not right about the way she died? She had a heart problem, you know...didn't make a lot of it, but her colour wasn't too good sometimes, that bluish tinge and I know she took tablets. We went on outings together on occasion, visited local gardens, stopped for lunch, that sort of thing."

"And who would drive you both on occasions, like that."

She gave him a look. "I would Inspector, I'm fully licensed and insured."

"Yes. I suppose I wondered if your handyman, or Braithwaite, who worked for her might have driven you.

She shook her head and calmly poured out the tea. "No, Inspector. Dunne will drive me if there is a particular reason; otherwise I like to drive myself. Keep it up, you know, it stops one getting isolated and so forth.

"And Mrs. Butler never spoke about being troubled in any way, especially in recent times?"

"No, you're talking as though someone killed her,"

"Well, it's looking like it, unless she took an overdose of her heart tablets, which seems unlikely taking into account what you and other people have told me about her."

"But, how?"

"We had to exhume the body," he interjected swiftly. Mrs. Arbuthnot, I'm amazed that you haven't heard about this?"

She shook her head. "I discourage gossip amongst the servants, Inspector and a lot of my time is taken up with Arthur, and the estate."

She must be lying Not one of her friends rang up and told her this? And her husband in the Dalesman? Surely, he would have heard the talk? Then remembering the man's befuddled state, well, maybe not. But suddenly Greene was no longer quite so sure about Mrs. Arbuthnot. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "The police were tipped off about Mrs. Butler's death not being as straightforward as it seemed. Not the only anonymous letter to have been received in the area, by all accounts, mentioning no names obviously."

He looked at her. She was deep in thought.

"Please excuse me for a minute, Inspector."

She left the room. Greene drank his tea and ate a piece of the fruitcake and waited.

She came back, crossed to where he was sitting in an armchair he found a bit too low for his back and handed him the white envelope. After he read the letter, he looked at her. "So, you had one too." He was stating the obvious.

"I suppose I should have shown it to you before now."

"You should have, yes. Has anyone else seen it?"

She shook her head.

"Not a soul, and before you ask, yes that does include my husband. I've got used to shielding him from things. He cannot deal with pressures like this—at least since the loss of our sons. Before that, he was the strong, male figure in the household. After these losses, Inspector, you carry on, but it takes its toll. In Arthur's case, as you see, it takes the form of the bottle."

And you? He felt like asking, but desisted. Instead, he said, "The letter refers to your sons, or one of them, as well as your daughter. The writer clearly knows something."

"Yes, but not anything that has any bearing on Elizabeth Butler's death. It's something I do not want to discuss. Not now. Possibly, at a later stage, but not now. Let's say, every family has its skeletons in the closet, Inspector, its secrets."

"But you don't feel that this is something you can reveal, even if it could cast some light on the writer of these letters? You must recognise that this person is causing a lot of misery in the area, and who knows what else if he or she sends the wrong letter or to the wrong person?"

Dorothea Arbuthnot shrugged, but her expression belied the dismissive gesture. "I see what you are trying to do, Inspector. You have your job to do, but not at the expense of my family. In some cases, people who are no longer alive. I've examined my conscience and can swear to you that I cannot see any possible connection between what was in that letter and Elizabeth's death. What you've told me is shocking. I liked her very much. If I thought I knew anything that would give you any help, I would tell you. But, I don't."

And that was as far as he was going to get, at least, to use her own words, for now.

* * *

Edith felt awful when she woke up. Her eyes were heavy and her limbs leaden. The headache started in her face and forehead and throbbed each time she moved. But the headache was almost a relief because it stopped her thinking.

There was a tap on the door.

Breakfast. That meant going to the patients' dining room. Could she skip that just for one morning? Better not. It would be seen as a sign of something or other and regardless of how terrible she was feeling. She didn't want anything to delay her prospects of discharge, though to where she wasn't sure. But, even that didn't matter as much as getting out.

I'm not ready, though. The evil little thought hit her out of nowhere and jolted her. Last night had happened—the panic, the terror of what she did not know. But, whatever the case it felt like she was back at square one. Was any hint of recovery so fickle, so fragile, the least thing could put her back again? Could she live the rest of her life like this? She honestly didn't think so. What was the alternative?

"Do you think it might be possible for me to see Doctor Uxbridge?" she asked the nurse who was dishing out the tablets at breakfast time.

Chapter 11

"What I want to know, Dr. Uxbridge is whether I will ever get better, or will I go through my life having these feelings of fear, anxiety, whatever you may call it. I suppose mental illness?"

"Do you think these feelings will get better?"

"Please, Dr. Uxbridge. I've read a little about the Freudians. Don't throw it back onto me. I'm out of my depth here. If I'm expected to find the answers within myself, then I am in deep trouble."

He smiled, crinkle eyed and warm. "Touché," he said, "but I'm afraid that asking you questions is a vital part of you getting better. This illness...breakdown isn't like a broken leg. You can't put yourself into the hands of the experts. We are all experts when it comes to ourselves. The trouble is that often we do not know it, and it certainly isn't easy to access it."

"So, you believe I won't get better with just rest and medication, and maybe some changes at home...you believe I have to do some delving into the past?"

"Honestly, Edith, yes I do. It's a long process and you will have setbacks, but I am of the opinion that when it comes to what we call the neuroses, as opposed to the psychoses, permanent change can only be brought about by some intense exploration. We know from Freud and his followers, and sadly, we know because of the men who were damaged in the war, that some things cannot be buried. You can try, but they have a way of coming after you again.

"So what do you suggest?"

"You're lucky. Well, perhaps you'll decide that for yourself. But, I'm interested in analysis and I am furthering my own studies into the area. I have a particular interest in people who were victims of the war in another way apart from the obvious way—medical staff, survivors, fire fighters, the bereaved. I would be prepared to see you here, on a weekly basis. Maybe you would think about it."

"But, does that mean having to stay here for a long time then? I don't want that. I wanted to talk to you about going home."

He made a quick note on the pad on his desk and looked at her over the top of his spectacles.

"Do you feel ready to go home?"

She sighed, so it was up to her again. "It's awkward. I did want to get out of here. I do want to get out, but a part of me thinks that I'm not quite ready."

"You were home for the weekend. Did it go well?"

She didn't answer immediately, because out of nowhere, a wave of sleepiness overtook her and she had to struggle to think straight. "I went to stay with my aunt at her house. I suppose it went well. There were no real crises or anything like that."

"But, you normally live with your brother?"

She'd been dreading this. "Yes, I don't think he wanted me to come home." It was out and it felt huge.

"Did that disappoint you, upset you?"

"Yes. He tried to pass it off by saying that he didn't believe in the whole weekend pass approach. You are either well enough to be discharged, or you are not, in which case you should be kept in hospital."

He nodded but did not speak.

"Then he tried to say that home—that is where we both live, the same house as his doctor's practice was the wrong place for me to be, too much going on, people calling..."

"But, you felt it was an excuse?"

She nodded. That feeling of tiredness was back again. She supposed it was something to do with the excitement of the weekend and the disturbance last night.

"Is it all right if I go back to the ward, Dr. Uxbridge? I'm feeling a bit tired. The ward was noisy last night..."

He nodded. "I will see you as usual during my ward rounds in a few days' time, on Thursday. Have a think about what I was saying."

"It will involve looking back, my childhood, that sort of thing?"

He nodded. "Yes."

She was glad she had asked to see him. Going back over things sounded daunting, but within her was a glimmer of something else. Maybe all these awful few months happened for a reason. Maybe she did need to change things. She was terrified, yes, but there was another feeling that she recognised as a glimmer of hope.

* * *

It all began to change in the laundry when a new patient joined them. Her name was Phyllis and there was something about her right from the start. The wardens in this place sometimes used to have a little joke that they didn't think the patients knew about. It wasn't altogether a joke, and it also probably had some truth in it. It was when they referred to the women as being either "sad, bad or mad."

Well, if there was any truth in the saying. Phyllis was definitely bad. She started causing problems right from the start. There was an older patient who worked at her own pace—slow. Phyllis threw garments and linen at her, rushing her, until the poor older woman had hysterics while Frances, who was out of earshot and sight at the time, tutted and wondered why old Agnes should break down like this.

She found everyone's weak spot—that was it. It was only a matter of time until she started on her.

"You never have any visitors, why is that? You poor thing, put away in here and forgotten, a nice young lady like yourself."

"Lots of people in here don't have visitors. It means nothing. The public is afraid to visit. Do you have visitors?"

Phyllis smiled a thin smile of malice rather than mirth. "Every visitors' day, my dear mama and sister, Kate. They come religiously, and they have promised to come for as long as I'm here, which I am told will not be long...just until this bit of depression gets better and those out there who caused it learn their lesson and repent. Then I will be out of here. A matter of weeks, a month or so at the most. What about you? They tell me you have been in here a long time. Shame. A nice, well-brought up young lady like you."

The fury rose in her at Phyllis's words, at the pitying, spiteful tone. Though the words might sound complimentary, she knew they weren't. They were about exploiting her weakness.

She shouldn't have answered her back. Why hadn't she stuck to her own rule about keeping her head down and keeping out of trouble? Because Phyllis did not like anyone to challenge her, and because she was bad, more than mad or sad, she marked her card, and there was no longer a chance of keeping her head down.

* * *

Cathy arrived home from work a bit early. She'd almost overslept this morning and taken her bike. Normally, she walked, but she had not wanted to be late, not the way things were at the shop. The day had dragged again. This whole different atmosphere in the shop had changed her life completely, so much more than she would have ever believed possible. Nobody was unpleasant to her but you could cut the atmosphere with a knife and it was so quiet.

Looking back, there had been a lot of chitchat. No gossip as such allowed, but there had been small talk, a bit of teasing. Occasionally the sisters would tell her things about their own childhood—about farming in the local area, when the whole of the dale revolved around the agricultural year, a little about the war and the men going off.

But, actually not all that much about the war. There seemed to be a bit of reserve about that. She sensed it might have something to do with her father, and, if that was the case, she didn't want to know. Now, though, there was no one to talk to apart from the customers. Surely, they too must have noticed something was wrong between the sisters.

"John! What are you doing out here?" Stupid question. It was obvious what he was doing, with his old bicycle upended against the wall of the lean-to. But there was something in his demeanour—as though his mind was not on what he was doing.

Old man's 'ome," he said. Cathy's stomach clenched.

"Is he in a mood, or summat?" she said.

John had a fierce look on his face, all of a sudden—a look Cathy had never seen before and she felt uneasy. "He's always in a mood, starting on me mam, on about money. It's all he ever thinks of, beer money and making us lives a misery. Pity he didn't stay wherever he was."

"Oh, John, what's the point in thinking that? This is his home and we are his family."

There was a silence. The words were spoken to calm her brother down. They were half-hearted and she didn't believe them herself. "I suppose losing the job at Mrs. Butler's hasn't helped. You know he only has a couple of days a week at the Arbuthnot's, and the casual labour on the farms, well, the farmers too are all badly off for money, it says in the paper. Farming depression, or something, cheap food brought in from abroad."

John leaned back on his heels and twisted his cap around on his head, giving him a rakish look. His dark mood disappeared and he grinned. "You're always trying to learn me, our Cath," he said, "But I think you're wasting your time on me, according to my dad, I'm thick in the 'ead."

"Teach you, not learn you," Cathy replied.

* * *

"That cook woman's back in the village," Brown said next morning. He knew exactly what the inspector was going to say and he wasn't wrong."

"So, what are you still doing 'ere then lad, scratchin'' yer 'ead. Get up to Farm Cottages and interview her. Cooks work in kitchens. Kitchens are the hub of the home. Bet nothing got past her. Look sharp, lad and get yer skates on."

Brown was smiling to himself as he left the station. One thing you could say about Greene—he always lived up to expectations, he was highly predictable.

Farm Cottages had once belonged to the Arbuthnot estate, but they had been sold off some ten years ago. They were a lot better than some in the area. Brown had been to cottages that looked nice from the distance, but were cramped and dark inside. He had also been to some where bad management, poverty, or a combination of both made them miserable. Where the furniture was cheap and rickety and the smell of unwashed clothes and bodies was enough to make the breath catch in the back of your throat.

Mrs. Whitchurch didn't live like that. Her cottage was clean and homely from the pots of geraniums to the smell of baking.

"You'll have come to ask me about Mrs. Butler?" the woman asked as she led him into the kitchen. "You'll 'ave a cup of tea?" she asked.

Brown nodded, remembered his manners, and thanked her. She wasn't like the popular image of a cook, not a dumpling on legs with a big apron and hair in a bun. Like her house, she was neat and her hair was in one of them Marcel perms his mother had been raving about. He had no idea what age she was as all women between about thirty-five and sixty-five looked basically the same to him—they all reminded him of his mother and his mother's friends.

"How long did you work at Mrs. Butler's?" he asked.

"Are you going to write all this down, officer, in your notebook, like? I won't be called as a witness or anything, will I? I don't think my Frank would like that, at all."

"Unlikely that it'll come to that ma'am. But, these are set questions that I need to ask then I'll get out of your hair."

"Eeh, no need to be like that, lad. I knew ye when ye were knee 'igh to a grasshopper. Your mam's Hilda Brown, isn't she?"

Brown nodded, his heart sinking. At this rate, he'd be here all day. This woman seemed a right chatterbox. If he didn't take some sort of charge, they'd get nowhere.

"I worked for her since they came to live in Yorkshire, 'er and the old gentleman Ralph Butler, that was—'er 'usband."

This was good. If he could stop her shooting off in all directions, this woman should prove to be a useful source of information. "So, the stepchildren would have lived there as well, at that time?"

She pulled a bit of a face. "Some of the time, both at boarding school, but home for the long holidays, often bringing friends with them, wanting this, that, and the other."

"And Mr. Butler, I mean as an employer, did you find him all right to work for."

"Perfectly nice man, not that he had a lot to do with the staff, that was Mrs. Butler's department."

"You stayed on after his death?"

"Of course, eeh lad, jobs on yer doorstep like that aren't all that easy to find, for all that I'm reckoned to be a good cook. Not sure what I'm going to do now...I'm not bad off for money, like, but I'm not one to stay at home with my knitting and the wireless. How does yer ma keep these days? I 'aven't laid eyes on her for ages, months anyway."

"She's fine, thanks, been visiting her sister in Devon 'elping her out over the summer."

"That's right, married to a farmer isn't she, your auntie Maud?"

Brown nodded. He had that horrible panicky feeling like when he had one of those nightmares where, no matter how hard you run, you cannot get where you want to go. He could hear Greene's voice in his head telling him to get a grip on the interview, remember why he was here. Mind you, it was a lot easier when the interviewee hadn't known you when you'd been running around with your shirttail hanging out of your trousers.

"The other staff in the house, can you tell me a bit about them?"

"Well, there's Stella, great girl, then there was that besom, Kirk, Esther, odd creature, though no real harm in her. Can't 'elp being a bit strange with her upbringing. Belonged to one of them sects her parents did. A bit extreme, you know. Everything a sin. She still goes along to their prayer meetings, which I canna see any harm in as far as it goes. Still you 'ave to 'ave a bit of fun, don't you, whether it is a drop of summat on a Saturday night, or a game of whist. Does yer mam still go to bingo?"

Brown felt that loss of control again, a bit like what he imagined drowning to be like. "Yes. Who else worked there? Braithwaite, I believe outside, handyman, driver and so forth?"

She smiled and she gave him a look, her eyes twinkling. "That's reet. Bit of a one for a laugh, Josh Braithwaite."

Flaming 'eck, there's a turn up for the books. No one else had a good word to say for the man. Either they had all got him wrong, or else he'd turned his charms on the cook. "So, you all got on well, in the house, the staff, like?"

"Ee lad, it is peculiar, like you asking me questions like this, young lad like you."

Brown sighed and tried to look both older and more serious. It would have been far better for the boss to take this one. However, she talked on, when she stopped tutting about how grown-up he had become.

"Yes, we all got on grand, except Esther as I said, not that she caused us any trouble as such, but put a bit of a dampener on the atmosphere at times. I don't mind admitting that much as I felt so sorry for the poor lady dying sudden, like. I was also very disappointed for myself, like I say, jobs such as that don't come along every day."

"You were left a bit of a legacy?" No point in beating around the bush, with this woman.

Mrs. Whitchurch shifted in her chair, seemed to draw her whole body up an inch and tighten her shoulders. "Yes, and I won't pretend it won't make a big difference."

There was a pause; he could almost see the cogs in her brain turning.

"Well, lad, you may as well be the first to know. I'm giving some serious thought to going in with my sister. It's my thing after all, cooking. Her bed and breakfast business in on the edge of th' Peak District—they're getting more people than ever come on walking holidays, since that Kinder Scout Trespass. It'd be a big move certainly, but well, our Frank won't be around forever, with him courting. You know I'm a widow woman, so I've no real ties. I'm not ready to 'ang up my apron yet awhile."

With instructions to give various messages to his mother, Mrs. Whitchurch finally let him go. It had been a curious interview and he wasn't too sure what to make of the news she was moving. Surely, to goodness that wouldn't be a motive to give the old lady crushed up heart tablets. Then, maybe there was more to Mrs. Whitchurch than met the eye. The business with Braithwaite, for instance. What he knew of the man and what he had heard, from Greene along with everyone else was that he was a sly good-for-nothing. Maybe he had revealed another, better side of himself to the cook.

* * *

Archie visited as promised. It was a bit better, Edith supposed. He seemed less keen to get a reaction from her, say something that seemed designed to upset her—at least for most of the visit.

"I suppose they're sending you home again next weekend?" he began. At least, he was facing up to it. "Yes, but don't worry, Aunt Alicia was quite keen for me to go to her again next time, and I don't mind. In fact, you may have been right, Archie. It was quiet and peaceful there and she honestly seemed to appreciate the company.

"People will think it's odd if you go there again, instead of home, I mean."

She laughed. "Archie, that's the least of my worries. Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to be the talk of the place anyway. Where I stay at the weekend is neither here nor there."

"You've recovered your sense of humour. That's a good sign. Fair enough, if you've talked about it with Aunt Alicia and she wants you to go to her next time. But, after that, you'd better come back home, Edith. Try to re-assemble some sort of normality. To be honest, Edie, the place isn't the same without you. Talk about not missing the well...I never realised you did so much in the practice. My paperwork is falling badly behind,"

She could take that in all sorts of ways He is missing her help and he's worried about what people are saying. That was definitely how she would have seen it a couple of weeks ago. But now, she could see it and decide to take it at face value. Archie was doing his best to get back to normal, clumsy as some of the things he said may sound. It was all a step in the right direction.

"Talking about things at home," he said. "There's definitely something amiss with Mrs. Braithwaite. She has changed. Well, she must have for me to have noticed. She seems hardly there, off in her own world. She was always a sensible woman, now I can hardly get a word out of her, apart from the absolute basics."

"Well, she's never been a big gossip, which is just as well...for us, I mean." She hasn't got a good life at home. He's a bit of a swine, I believe."

"Where did he suddenly come from anyway, all these years after the war? I always thought he must have gone off with another woman or something. Then he appears out of the blue? I mean, why did she take him back? She was doing all right with the two children, wasn't she? After all, she brought them up single-handedly."

Edith felt much more relaxed, now they had started to talk about something less intimate and personal as her, her illness, and all that went with it. "I'm not so sure he did go off with another woman. I've a feeling that he might have been in prison. But, don't ever repeat that, for God's sake. I could be wrong. It was just something she let slip once about him coming back, she said something like when he gets out, then changed it quickly to back. I might not even have heard it right, but it did make me wonder."

"Mmm, if you thought it, it was probably true. You are very strong in the instinct department."

"Archie, that is actually a compliment. I think. It's just a pity that my instincts are not quite so strong when it comes to my own life though."

* * *

Phyllis kept on and on—her voice like a hissing snake at times, direct and aggravating in her ear. At other times, it was like a wasp, sending her mad.

"Leave me alone," she shouted one day. Frances looked startled and told them to calm down. Though disagreements, even the odd fight, broke out sometimes, she was the quiet and calm one. The one, after all, who was working hard to become an old timer, a trusted patient who would eventually, by keeping her head down, would be sent to the sewing room.

"I bet you had a boyfriend. You look the type. The quiet, ladylike ones, the prim ones who are all fire and moaning when the lights are off. Were you like that? Maybe he left you with a baby. Ah! Bet that was it..."

But she didn't let Phyllis get any further because she picked up the heavy iron and hit her in the face with it. She had to shut the evil bitch up.

Chapter 12

Cathy heard her parents argue during the night. She couldn't hear the words, but it was obvious from the tone they were not exchanging small talk. Though they didn't really get on, it was not normally like this. Usually they had little to say to each other.

Her mother did everything to make all their lives comfortable and she got no thanks—well, not from him anyway. What had she seen in her dad? He must have been a different person altogether before the war. Now, he treated her mother like a servant and never spoke a civil word to her.

And, the thing that drove Cathy mad was her mother just took it. If that was what being married meant, then she was never, ever going to do it herself. What she would like to do was travel, get a good job, and live on her own with a dog. But, all that seemed completely out of reach.

"Stay on at school, Cathy. Miss Hopkins thinks you could be a pupil teacher," her mother had urged. But, her dad had laughed at the idea. Not come out against it, but made it seem like a stupid idea. Something in Cathy had compelled her to turn down the opportunity. It seemed impossible to remember now exactly what that was, but it was all tied up with earning money. How she was regretting it.

In the morning, her father had already left for work. He'd gotten a few days helping with the autumn work on a dales farm. That was what he liked best, no commitment to anything. He often talked about being "his own man" whatever that was supposed to mean.

Cathy looked at her mother as she eventually stopped working and sat down at the opposite side of the table. She looked dreadful. Cathy had heard a woman in the shop once refer to her mother as a fine-looking woman and had been surprised and pleased too, but mostly surprised. She'd looked at her with fresh eyes that evening when she had got home and she could see exactly what the woman in the shop had meant. Her mother had perfect even features and clear blue eyes.

But, she had given up on trying to look her best years ago, probably while dad had been away. Her mother was clean and tidy, but that was as much as you could say. No finery, no make-up, nor permanent waves. You got the impression Hannah Braithwaite was finding life far too hard and serious to think of such trivialities.

Now, though, it was difficult to see her mother's good looks. She looked pale, sort of sallow. She had deep shadows under her eyes and a permanent frown. Cathy could also tell that she'd been crying. "What's the matter, mam?" she asked now. Her heartbeat fast, the truth was she wasn't at all sure she wanted an answer.

"Nothing, Cathy. Nothing at all for you to worry about. Your dad isn't that settled, I suppose. No steady work. Then there's my own job...well, with Miss Horton in hospital, who knows what will happen there. That's all. Eat up and get off to the shop, you need to look after your own job and not be worrying."

Cathy did as she was told, walking, not cycling, down the lane to the village. She felt like breathing the fresh autumn air and shuffling her feet through the golden crisp leaves as she and John used to do when life was much simpler.

She had not believed her mother. They weren't well off. But, neither were they very poor like some of the other people in the village. Cathy had been to school with some who hadn't even had shoes to wear and you could tell they didn't have enough to eat. It had never been like that at home, and Cathy had seen enough to appreciate it.

Her mam had always worked, but the real stroke of luck had been that her mother inherited their cottage, outright, from an uncle. So, they didn't have to worry about rent, or losing the roof over their heads. Her dad always seemed to be, well, maybe not flush, but have a wad of money in his pocket. If he did fall short of beer money, he scrounged it off mam.

So, whatever was bothering her mother, it wasn't just that. Also, whatever was going on at the Horton's she didn't think her mam would ever lose her job there. They were very fair to her and needed a good, reliable housekeeper, whatever happened.

Mam had actually told her about Miss Horton, which had been a bit shocking. But, her mother said Miss Horton's breakdown would be the talk of the place and she wanted Cathy to know the truth so she could put a stop to any gossip that was going on. That was what her mam was like.

"Miss Horton's had to go into hospital, that mental place, St. Bride's. She's had a bit of a breakdown. It's more common than you might think, our Cath, for all that ignorant people say stupid things about it. Lots of people who served one way or another in the war, suffered with their nerves afterwards, and Miss Horton worked as one of them volunteer nurses. Her fiancé died as well. So, if you think about it, it is not all that surprising that she should have a bout of depression."

She hesitated, as though about to say something else, but thought again about it, "So, no gossiping Cathy. The woman is a good friend and employer and the last thing I want to be doing is to be adding to her suffering."

This had all sounded very grown-up to Cathy and she vowed there and then that she would do as her mother asked. There had been a bit of talk, too, in the shop, especially if the Sowerby sisters were out of hearing. Everyone knew her mother worked for the doctor and his sister. No one actually came out and asked her, but there were lots of half questions like, "your mother must be very busy at the doctor's, Cathy, with his poor sister being ill, and all?" Cathy prided herself on remaining polite, as you had to in her job, but at the same time giving nothing away.

The minute she reached the shop, she knew there was something wrong. That was because, by now, the door was always on the latch and one of the sisters, usually Miss Prudence would be busy setting up for the day. Now, there was no sign of life. Something was amiss because it felt so wrong. You could set your watch by the routine in the shop and the sisters were sticklers for reliability and punctuality. Cathy checked the door and as she'd feared it was locked and bolted.

She went round to the side door and knocked with the big, heavy brass knocker. This door was hardly ever used, but she didn't feel right about going round to the rear entrance that backed into the ginnel. There was no response to her knocking and Cathy had no idea what to do next. She wished she'd come on her bike now, and she could have gone back home, in a matter of minutes to fetch her mother.

Then, she heard a noise behind the door. Her heart began to race and she felt clammy—almost as though she were going to faint. Don't be stupid, she told herself. What did she expect? That a monster of some sort was going to unlock the door?

She heard the sound of the door being unbolted and it opened in a cautious way, as if the person behind it was unsure about opening it.

Miss Marjorie stood there, but it was a Miss Marjorie who didn't look like the same woman. She wore a blue quilted dressing gown and her hair was in some sort of net. Her feet were bare, and that was the most shocking thing of the lot. Her face was pasty and puffy and looked completely different without her usual lipstick and powder.

"Oh, Cathy, it's you. I'm afraid the shop won't be opening today. You can go back home and have the day off. We'll still pay you, don't worry."

Her voice sounded different. She always spoke in a high, cheerful voice, but now, she sounded sad and dazed.

"I'm going to make a notice now, to put on the door. It's a busy day in the post office, but people will have to cope without us for one day. Her voice had tailed off, as though she were talking to herself.

Cathy stood there. She didn't have a clue what to do or say, but something was clearly very wrong.

"Off with you now, Cathy. I need to get on."

"Are you ill, Miss Sowerby?" Cathy said.

"No, well apart from a headache and I didn't sleep well. No, it's my sister, Prudence, who isn't very well at the moment."

"I hope she'll be better soon," Cathy answered, but it felt inadequate.

She turned to walk away and then, before she could help herself, she turned back again.

"Miss Sowerby, please don't be annoyed with me, but couldn't I open up? I know most of the routine by now and I could ask you if I was stuck about anything?"

Miss Marjorie shook her head slowly, "No, that would never do."

"But, won't you be pestered all day by people knocking you up, wanting to know what the matter is?"

She saw the expression on Miss Marjorie's face change and felt sorry for having worried her. But, she was right. Look at how she, herself had reacted to a change in the shop's routine. If the place didn't open at all, the village would be filled with rumour and speculation.

"You're right, Cathy. What am I thinking?"

"Come in quickly and we'll have a cup of tea and get things ready."

Cathy followed her onto the porch, through the narrow corridor, and into the kitchen. Last night's dishes were on the draining board and the curtains hadn't yet been drawn.

"If you like, Miss Marjorie, I'll start things while you have a cup of tea.

"No, stop with me, if you don't mind. There's a good girl. In fact, why don't you put the kettle on, and I'll get dressed? What must you think of me like this? I bet I look a fright."

Well, in fact, you do a bit. But she just said, "I'll put the kettle, on, then Miss Marjorie."

"I made a decision while I was getting dressed, Cathy," said a voice behind her.

Cathy was sitting by the table having set out the cups and saucers and put a cosy on the pot. She wondered about making porridge or something, but thought she had better leave it, until Miss Marjorie came back downstairs. She was thinking how surprising the day was turning out and how unsettled it was all making her feel. Sometimes, when the shop was quiet, she often wished something would happen, a bit of excitement, like.

Now, that something had happened, Cathy found that she didn't like it one bit.

"Miss Prudence is missing, she's disappeared."

Cathy stared at her employer. What on earth on earth did she mean? Miss Prudence had disappeared? Where would she go? Why? "Do you mean you woke and found her missing?" Cathy asked after a long pause.

"Yes, I got up at 5:30 a.m. as usual, made a pot of tea. There was no sign of Prudence. I went up and knocked, went into her room when she didn't answer the door, but there was no sign of her."

Cathy wished her mother were here. Maybe she could suggest going and fetching her? Her mother always knew what to do, in a crisis.

"Don't say anything about this, Cathy. Please. I don't want us to be the subject of gossip in Ellbeck. You know what the place is like."

Cathy drank some of her tea, wanting to do something ordinary and familiar, wanting the floor beneath her feet to stop moving. Miss Marjorie needed a friend, but it couldn't be her. She was too young, a kid in Miss Sowerby's eyes and what's more, she was an employee. Maybe she'd help best by opening up and carrying on as normal—give Miss Marjorie a bit of time.

She got up to take her cup to the sink. "I'll get on Miss Marjorie," she said.

A noise, made her turn back to the table. Tears were flowing down Miss Marjorie's face and she made a move with the back of her hand like a child to brush them away. Cathy came back to the table. "Is there something I could do to help, Miss Marjorie?"

She summoned her courage. After all Miss Marjorie had allowed her in, talked to her about what had happened. "Did you have a bit of a fall-out, like?" She closed her eyes for a second, hardly believing her own daring. But, whether it was because she was in such a state, Miss Marjorie didn't see anything wrong in the question.

"We did argue yes, last night. I suppose you're not blind or deaf, dear. You will have noticed that not all has been well between my sister and me. But, to leave like this...oh, dear, what if she's harmed herself in some way. Oh, dear, oh dear, Cathy, what am I to do?"

She had to do something. "Miss Sowerby? I think I should get my mother. She'll know what to do." There was no answer. At least she hadn't said no. "I'll go now, quickly and then I'll let you talk to her while I go and open up."

Within twenty minutes, Cathy had returned to the shop, on her bicycle this time and told Miss Marjorie her mother was on her way down.

"All slept out today, lass?" asked a man already standing at the door when she opened. He was waiting to buy his baccy.

Her mother was in the back room for a long time. Then she and Miss Marjorie, both looking serious, came through to the shop. Her mother was back in her tweed coat and headscarf and Miss Marjorie was in a flared blue coat, but without the usual scarves and with an old-fashioned looking hat perched on top of the greying fair hair.

Her mother beckoned Cathy to one side. "We're going to have a word with Inspector Greene. Miss Marjorie is ever so worried and as the day goes on, well, we can't leave it. Don't say a word to anyone about anything. Just continue with your work, there's a good girl."

Surely, to goodness, the sight of both of them going into the police house was going to be enough to get the gossips going, but she nodded at her mother. At least all of this had made her look like her normal mother again, not like the pale ghost she was becoming.

* * *

"Thank you so much for coming, Henry. I can't tell you how nice it is to see you." She meant it. But, she was afraid she might be sounding a bit too eager, feverish even. "I'm going out again, next weekend, again, to Aunt Alicia's. Also, Julia is coming to see me tomorrow. Now, you too! I'm beginning to feel human again."

Henry smiled, "Good, you're looking brighter too, much more so than the last time I visited."

"Well, Archie's been in too. We talked a bit more honestly. He admitted that he finds it difficult to have me at home, that the last few months were hard. Believe me, that's unusual, coming from Archie. He's not the best at talking about that sort of thing..."

"Maybe it is by small steps that recovery takes place. No magic wand, or magic treatment, just a gradual resumption again of life."

"Henry," she shook her head, decisively, "I don't think that will work, you know, a gradual resumption of normality. There were reasons that brought me into this place. Unless I manage to change some things, then what's to say that it won't all happen again? Maybe part of that involves looking at exactly what I was like before I was admitted here. All the events that led to me being admitted."

"Edith, I understand what you're saying, but I also think you should tread carefully."

She laughed, shakily, "Don't rock the boat, you mean?"

"Not exactly. But are you strong enough right now to start looking back at distressing times? By its nature any sort of breakdown is painful, and I'd worry that dwelling on it too much could set you back. Have you talked to the doctor, or the nurses?"

"Yes, a bit. But, they only know me since I came in here. It's what went on before, what led to that point that's the most difficult, and I suspect the most important."

Henry looked at her. Then down at the floor. He didn't say anything for what seemed a long time.

She eventually broke the silence. "Dr. Uxbridge is interested in analysis, you know, Freud and all that sort of belief system that you have to explore the past, your childhood even, to look for explanations for present day neuroses and problems."

"I suppose you might expect me to say that maybe the answer to our problems might equally lie in prayer and faith?"

She looked at him, startled for a moment—not sure how serious he was being. She saw he was smiling.

"I don't suppose they are mutually exclusive," he said, "though you would find plenty people on each side, to tell you different. The main thing, Edith, is how do you feel about it? Do you think it will help?"

She nodded. "It is the first proper ray of hope I've found for a long time. If burying painful things have brought me to this pass, surely there's not going to be any solution, or any peace, until I disinter some of them."

Suddenly aware of the blunder she had made, she winced. "I'm sorry, Henry, that was a bad choice of words. The worse thing I've had to deal with in the last weeks, I suppose, is Archie's reaction to me coming home. But, it's forced me to think about things that happened before I came in. I try to remember, but so much of it is hazy. What did I do? Do you know? She could see he had been dreading this question. But he'd probably sensed some time ago that she would ask him.

"You became very preoccupied with a friend of your brother's."

"Matthew?"

He nodded. "Yes. I don't think it was all one-sided, Edith, but he was married. I think it sent you into shock when you found out."

"I remember being obsessed with him, I think. But, Archie says it was all in my head. I'm sure that it wasn't. It can't have been, though they tried to say it was. But, that's stupid, Henry. Even if I doubted my own sanity and my own memories, I know I wouldn't have invented the whole thing. I wouldn't.

"In the years since Alistair's death, I've had one or two romances. They were nice while they lasted, but no hearts were broken on either side. I was perhaps seeing other people to prove to myself that life goes on. I didn't become so-called obsessed at any point. Why would I, at this time in my life, invent an imaginary love affair, and cause the man and his family distress? I know it wasn't that simple. I may be in an asylum and have had a breakdown, but I wouldn't have behaved in that way. I couldn't have lost myself to that extent, could I Henry?"

"I only know bits and pieces of what happened, Edith. This Matt came to stay in the house, catching up on the old days with Archie. You spent a lot of time with him, you looked happy, very happy. But, that's all I saw. I did see you both together, walking. I saw you both when I went round to your house for dinner one night. All I can say is that you seemed to have a rapport between you. I suppose I did wonder...but whether anything else developed I don't know."

"He told me he loved me, that he had a terribly unhappy marriage, that his wife eventually agreed to a separation, but nothing else—no divorce. But, he hoped that time would change her mind, that when she realised there was no going back then she wouldn't hold back anymore—what would be the point?"

"But, he wasn't telling you the truth?"

"No, it seems not. He went back home, to sort things out, made me all sorts of promises. The first few weeks, I had letters almost every day—he would sort things out. I would go to London. We would be together. Maybe I could take up voluntary nursing. A new life, or, in some ways a return to life. It was mainly him, Matt, but I think some of the dreams were also tied up with the rest of it—the idea of a new life. I don't know, Henry. It isn't as though I was unhappy...or so it seemed. But when the possibility of a big change was dangled before me, I grabbed it. I think that as much as anything shocked me."

Henry shrugged and shook his head slowly. "Edith, you won't be the only person that the war unsettled. It was a horrendous, awful time that should never have been allowed to happen and I think we're all realising that more and more as we see more of what was written during and after battle." He paused, looked at her then bent his head. After a few beats he looked at her again.

"But, war also brings other consequences. I suppose invariably some of them are positive, even developments in medicine for instance. For some people, it was a time of camaraderie and adventure. It's very hard to get back to normal life, or even understand what normal life is. I can understand that. In fact, I frequently deal with them."

Edith wiped her top lip with a handkerchief. She hadn't registered how stuffy it had become. "I still don't remember all of it. I remember the absence of letters, feeling panic. I thought something must have happened to him. I was beside myself with worry. Archie was even worried. He offered to go up to London, when he couldn't get through to St. Thomas' where Matthew worked..."

This was the hard bit, and in some ways this was the last bit of the story she had clear and sharp memories about."

"You got a letter," Henry prompted.

"Yes, I got a letter from his wife. I remember shouting out for Archie. I couldn't believe it. It was his former wife out to cause trouble. I read it over and over. Archie read it—he swore. I think inside somewhere, I knew that every word she had written was true. She had got to the post before him—can you believe him being so careless as to allow that to happen. She wrote that she'd had her suspicions. He had spent longer in Yorkshire than he'd said he was going to, and the big, irrefutable thing was this wasn't the first time. He'd done this sort of thing before, or so she said. His wife, Hetty, oh and they had, or, I should say, have a six-year-old son Max."

"Poor woman,"

Edith looked at him, startled.

"Come on, Edith. Would you prefer to be in that poor woman's shoes than your own—being cheated on, unable to let him out of your sight?"

"Then being harassed by a maniac woman who thinks the whole thing is a conspiracy against her. I lost touch with reality, didn't I Henry? Completely."

"It wasn't the worst that could have happened. The only person you ended up hurting was yourself, Edith. Given that type of deception, others have committed grievous bodily harm, murder even."

"I wrote letters, though, to him, his wife, his parents, Oh, God help me even to his workplace, I think. I'm not sure."

"Edith, don't be too hard on yourself. You'd invested too much in him, that's all."

"Letters, though, Henry. I remember writing letters, furiously, manically. Needing other people to see things as only I could see them—clearly."

"What if I wrote other letters as well, letters to people around Ellbeck? Those anonymous letters that were going around the village? I don't remember doing so, but when I do think about it, there is a doubt somewhere—something on the edge of my memory that I can't put my finger on—but something distressing—that makes me wake up in a cold sweat."

She put her hands in front of her face.

"Edith, please. You're facing things, thinking about things. I think that's all good, but don't take it too far. Don't make yourself ill again. You need to keep your eye on the goal, getting better, getting released from here, and looking forward.

She nodded, but her eyes still looked backwards rather than forwards.

* * *

All the women stood still for a few seconds. All eyes focused on the figure on the floor, on the blood and the groaning. At least the awful Phyllis was alive—She held the iron, still. Then she started to shake. There was a loud clamour.

"For God's sake, what have you done?" it was Frances, shaken out of her normal calm.

A whistle sounded, a group of women descended and before stretcher or doctor or any of the things she heard mentioned, they escorted her away. There were even a couple of male nurses amongst the group who had come to subdue her. That was almost funny. She wasn't going to offer any resistance or fight. She'd had to stop that evil mouth saying all those things. She had had to stop it.

Chapter 13

Inspector Greene looked at the woman sitting across his big oak desk. He sighed. This was as painful as drawing teeth.

Miss Marjorie Sowerby had come into his office, with the Braithwaite woman, and she was determined she would remain with her, even when Hannah Braithwaite had said, "Maybe, you should speak to the inspector in private, Miss Marjorie. I could sit here and wait." She indicated the painted cream chair in the passageway that passed for a waiting room.

"No, please come in with me...Inspector, I want Mrs. Braithwaite with me, if that's all right?"

He nodded, impatient to get on with it. This was supposedly his day off, but truth to tell, there was always work to do and he didn't hold with time off. He'd find himself wandering round the house and garden, seeing jobs to do and lacking the motivation to get on with them. "You use your work as an escape from life and home," Margaret had said to him, once, bitterly. The words had cut him, but he'd bitten back an angry denial because her words had been perceptive.

"Go over it again. Miss Sowerby. You say your sister is missing. But we need to distinguish here between a grown woman taking herself off, in a bit of a huff like, or someone who might be in danger. Do you see?"

She nodded, but didn't look a bit convinced.

"Has your sister ever done anything like this before?"

"No, of course not..." She hesitated. "Yes, once. Many years ago, but it was completely different, inspector. It was a broken romance. She went off to a cousin in London, for a week, saying nothing about it to our parents or me. But, that was completely different," she repeated. "Prudence went off, in high dudgeon. Our parents disapproved of the man, that was all. It probably would have fizzled out anyway. The romance, I mean, but Prudence blamed them. But, that was many years ago. She came home, she got over it..."

"Yes, but it does tell me something, Miss Sowerby. It tells me that your sister is the type who will remove herself for a while from the source of conflict. That's interesting, and that's what makes me think that there's been a problem at home, with yourself? Am I right?"

Marjorie fiddled with the top button of her coat, opening it eventually.

"Take your coat off if you like, Miss Sowerby, it's maybe a bit stuffy in here."

He kept his eye on her while she removed her coat. Hannah Braithwaite stood and took it from her. "So, Miss Sowerby, we were saying about arguments, trouble at home?"

Greene sighed. This was proving painfully slow.

"Maybe you'd like a drop of water?"

She nodded and Hannah Braithwaite got up again.

"Door straight ahead of you, at the end of the passage," he said. "You'll find glasses in the cupboard over the sink.

Eventually, Marjorie calmed herself enough to look at him and say, "We got one of those letters, inspector. One of the letters with no signature. Dirty, disgusting things that are going around. Prudence has been upset ever since. She's taken against me, too because of it."

* * *

Dorothea Arbuthnot had steeled herself to speak to Arthur after the episode of the police inspector bringing him home. Things were getting worse, and she couldn't go on burying her head about it all. Drunk in the village pub. It wasn't so much shame she felt as an aching hurt. Things had gone too far, for him to listen to her. It would have been easier if she could have been angry—and in the distant past, he had given her reason to feel anger towards him. But, how could she turn against such a broken man?

She tried to put images out of her mind, but they still intruded. She kept photographs out of the way, hated looking at them. But the images that flashed in front of the mind's eye were much more difficult to deal with...a dance, a witty, handsome lean man, with warm brown eyes. He'd been passionate, about her, about the estate, but about so much else too...motor cars, for instance, the possibilities opening for travel.

Their honeymoon had eventually been a cruise. The early days here—the boys, Helena. Now, the only passion he had was for the dead and what he could find to blot out the pain. How on earth could she make him face any of it? Were they not better to soldier on as they were? People in the village were generally good-hearted. They would accept Arthur's weakness, probably a lot easier than she, could. What would be gained by stirring it all up? Words from her were not going to make him stop drinking, but were only going to give him another excuse to continue.

* * *

Cathy fielded the customers' questions as best she could. It was as if they knew something was amiss and she couldn't actually tell them the two sisters had gone anywhere as Miss Marjorie and her mam could walk in at any moment. She passed off curious remarks by saying the sisters were busy and refused to say another word.

Eventually her mother and Miss Marjorie came back—neither of them said anything, but went straight round to the back. To her relief, about a half hour later her mother went, saying she needed to do a short time at the doctor's this afternoon. Miss Marjorie soon followed her into the shop, unusually for her, wearing a voluminous white apron and carrying a yellow duster. As Cathy took more or less all the responsibility for the dusting and tidying of the shop and post office, this was a surprise.

"Go and have your bite of lunch, Cathy, you must be hungry. I'll do a bit of tidying, not that you don't do a good job. But it will take my mind off things and I want everything to be just right for when Prudence comes back..."

Her hair was tied back in a scarf, turban style and she looked so unlike her usual self it added to Cathy's sense of displacement. She took her flask and her packet of ham and tomato sandwiches and cycled to a spot by the bank of the river. It was a bit cold, but she breathed in the fresh air in gulps.

Everything had felt claustrophobic and horrible today. Miss Prudence's disappearance, Miss Marjorie's distress, and though she had been so glad of her mother's help, her presence in the shop had reminded Cathy about the strange things about home. What was the business about the money in the envelope in the shed—and she was sure it was money...and her mother. Her mother seemed to be planning something, or at least keeping secrets. Could it have anything to do with the doctor's sister, Miss Horton? Or...she couldn't be planning to leave them, could she?

Cathy felt sick with panic, suddenly and threw what was left of her sandwich to some passing ducks. Surely, her mother would never leave her and John to their father? She couldn't do that, could she? Mind you, ever since her father's return her mother had been tense and nervy. She put on a good show in front of her children, but how could she be happy? The way he treated her would be enough to make anyone leave. But, then why should it be her mother?

If anyone should leave, it should be him. As soon as this crisis in the shop was over, Cathy was going to face her mother, talk to her. She was going to tell her about the envelope, whatever her father's threats.

* * *

"What does this involve," Edith asked. She'd hardly thought of anything else since her last talk with Dr. Uxbridge. Maybe this would help, enable her to come to terms with the past. Maybe there was stuff she wasn't even aware of behind this illness. But, for all the hope, she was also terrified.

"I think we should concentrate today on talking about the immediate future," Dr. Uxbridge said.

Edith was disappointed. Every time she saw the glimmer of an explanation, a bit of hope she was pulled back to the here and now, her incarceration, not that it was really that, in this place and the problem of going home. She couldn't keep returning to Aunt Alicia's and the way she felt neither could she imagine living again with her brother, at least not in the long term.

"For instance, you tell me you are going out to stay at your aunt's again this weekend? Is this your choice?"

Edith closed her eyes. She heard a shuddering sigh come from her and then opened her eyes again and looked at the doctor. Why was all this so very exhausting? The explanations...delving? "Yes, like I said, my brother felt that the village, especially as we live above the shop, would be too much for me to face. My aunt lives a few miles out in the country, quietly. She was more than happy to have me...genuinely so, she gets a bit lonely"

"And would you consider that, on a permanent basis? When you leave here?"

Edith felt a tightening in her throat. Panic. The thought of living out there, her and Aunt Alicia, growing steadily more cut-off, odder, as the years passed was insupportable.

"No. Not on a permanent basis, no. It seems an easier option for now. Archie feels that I should actually come back to the village...back home the next time I'm released."

There was a pause and it didn't feel like a comfortable one, to Edith.

"You have said a bit about how your brother feels, where he thinks is the best place for you to be. But, you haven't said where it is that you want to go"

"I don't know. I never meant to be living with Archie, in Ellbeck at this stage of my life. It sort of come about. I've drifted into it. I needed somewhere to come away to and lick my wounds. There was plenty to do and time passed. But, it is perhaps something that is no longer working, for either of us."

"But, you will go back there when you are discharged from here?"

She nodded her head. "Yes, there is no reason to make a drastic decision straight away, I suppose. Just now, I'm likely to make a rash one. Things aren't all bad at home. I am useful, part of the village. Archie and I rub along well enough. But things do have to change. I'm not sure of the direction of that change, but I hope something will take shape in my mind."

That's good, Edith?"

"How do you mean, Dr. Uxbridge?"

"I mean that it is good you can be calm about it—feel in control. I have a feeling being in control is very important to you."

"I wouldn't say that, no. I mean, if you look at the evidence, it hasn't been something you would say about me, is it? Me being in control?"

"You left home, you became a VAD. You went to France. Sounds fairly independent to me."

She was so tired. This was hard work, challenging her thoughts and beliefs like this. If she was going to get better, though, it is something she was going to have to keep doing. She'd made some progress today. She had arrived at a decision on where she was going to live, well, no, not on where she was going to live—but on the fact she was going to live somewhere else.

Julia. She needed to talk to Julia, but not here. She suddenly didn't want to see people here anymore. It was too unreal.

It was too late to stop Julia visiting though. But she would arrange with her about meeting again over the weekend. Their lives could not be any more different now. Julia was settled, had children. She was the one of the pair of them whose man had come back. What's more, he had come back undamaged, at least to the naked eye.

Edith struggled to push away these thoughts. Thinking life should be fair was one of the biggest mistakes any adult could make. So many people were much worse off, too. Mind you, Edith had never understood how on earth that was supposed to make you feel better.

As it happened, Julia didn't seem in the best of form. She looked much the same as usual, having the natural, outdoorsy looks that stood up well to life's travails, but Edith knew her so well that every twist of her mood was obvious.

"I'm out again, for the weekend, another pass—feels like a reward for good behaviour."

"Good, great, Edith." Julia hesitated. "Does this means you are going back home, or to your auntie's again?"

"Well, it's already been arranged with Aunt Alicia that I would go there this weekend. But, after that...well, home, I suppose. But, I wanted to talk to you about it."

"Why, do you mean?"

Edith shook her head. "Not here, Julia, I can't think straight in this place. Could you meet up sometime over the weekend? Would you be able to get out, I mean away from the family?"

Julia laughed, shortly, but didn't meet Edith's eye. "There's only Bea, really, isn't there? The boys are at school and Giles is out and about all the time, I don't see that much of him."

That didn't sound right to Edith's ears. There was a new bleakness in Julia's voice. It brought her up short. She'd become far too absorbed in her own problems. It looked like Julia too might need to talk to someone to talk to someone.

* * *

They took everything out of the room apart from a mattress on the floor and a few thin blankets. They made her put on a gown that fastened around the back and threw in a thick, ugly brown dressing gown. They handled her roughly and she didn't care, just stored it up in her mind.

They spoke to each other in a way that was meant for her. You couldn't trust any of "them" they said. They were no better than animals. They spoke about Phyllis needing the hospital, about how lucky she was not to have lost an eye. They were especially rough when they put her in the room, twisting her arm behind her back, dragging her, though she was not putting up any resistance. But it was the words they spoke that hurt her. She had believed she was doing so well, too.

* * *

Greene was in a foul mood. Sergeant Brown kept his head down and wished there was a proper excuse for him to be out of the place, but right now, Greene wanted to go on and on about stupid bloody women, and stupid bloody spinsters, in particular.

"So, you need to track the foolish woman down and hope she's not going to be dragged from a river somewhere, because of a barney with that sister of hers."

"And she wouldn't give you any clue about what could have been in the letter that caused the trouble between them?" He should have had a helmet to protect himself, particularly his ears, from the fall-out.

"I told you, didn't I? Not a word out of her about the contents of the letter—private business between herself and her sister. All high dudgeon and flaming 'ysterics. Can't understand the public, lad—honestly I can't. They want our help when it all goes wrong, but at the same time they want to keep their secrets and their privacy.

"Anyway, what are you doing still standing there like flaming Nelson's column? Get onto the local forces. Check the admissions to the hospitals. Get a description of the bloody woman and a photograph too—it's all going to be tied up, isn't it? The doctor, the wealthy widow woman seen off...and these letters. We find the writer of those letters, Brown, as soon as you've put the word out about the missing woman, and we do it fast.

Chapter 14

Dorothea Arbuthnot looked at her daughter whose arrival last night had been unexpected. She'd screeched up the drive in her MG, scattering all before her.

She looked tired behind the powdered cheeks and lipstick-painted mouth. Tired and somehow jaded.

She was thirty-four now, and Dorothea had a sudden poignant image of the village Church, and a veiled bride, with pink cheeks, and smiling eyes—the might-have-beens. She chided herself for her maudlin thoughts. That wasn't for everyone, and especially not for many of these modern girls, which was strange in a way, when you considered it.

Those women a decade or so older often had no choice, particularly not in their own class. There hadn't been, to put it bluntly, enough suitable young men left to go round. But it was different for her own daughter, whose contemporaries had been too young to go to war.

It's all beyond me. She was on her own. Arthur hadn't come down yet, and she didn't expect her daughter to get up for another couple of hours. Usually as part of her morning ritual, she checked the garden and glasshouses, and she was about to set off when Helena surprised her by coming into the morning room. She looked rested, better, as though youth had been restored by a good night's sleep. Just about still possible at Helena's age.

"Mummy," she said, "must you rush off? Stay and have another cup of tea with me. It's ages since we had a chat."

Disconcerted by this direct, out-of-character overture, Dorothea did as she was bid and poured out herself out another cup.

"It's lovely to have you home, dear, but you should have let me know. I could have organised something. You'll find it quiet here, after London."

Helena smiled. Dorothea saw the child, the earnest girl trailing along after her much older brothers, in that smile. On impulse, she said, "I know you hate hearing this, darling, but I worry about you. I want you to be happy. We both do, your father and I."

"I'm not sure he knows I'm still on the planet," Helena shot back.

"What?" Dorothea was shocked. "What are you saying? He loves you dearly. What a thing to say."

"Sorry, mummy, but you have to admit, he's not quite himself, at the moment is he? Shouldn't you get him to see a doctor, or something? I mean we all like a drink, but this is ridiculous. He'll kill himself at the rate he's carrying on."

Dorothea didn't know why she was shocked. There were plenty incidences of Helena's bluntness in the family history. It was irritating all the same. Barely a sight or a word for months, and then no sooner has she set foot back in the house than she's putting the aged parents right. As though her mother had somehow missed the signs of Arthur's problem. She would keep calm. Sparks had flown between them so many times, and at some level, whether consciously or not, Helena was trying to provoke a row.

"I know, Helena and I am trying to help, in my own way, but either of us rushing in, and undermining your father isn't likely to achieve anything apart from upsetting him."

"Well, maybe upsetting him is an inevitable part of getting him help,"

But Dorothea could tell her heart was no longer in talking about her father.

Now, Helena lit a cigarette and drew the smoke in deeply, throwing her head back and showing the bird-like brittleness of her long white neck. Her mother frowned. There were just so many thorny subjects between them. "I'm glad that you're enjoying your work at the gallery."

Helena's face lit up, showing her other side, the unsophisticated, almost childlike young woman she could sometimes be. "Oh, it's absolutely wonderful, mummy. I sold two paintings last week, one by Tom York."

And that was enough for her mother to get the picture.

She'd read about Tom York in the gossip columns of the weekend papers. He represented almost everything about the post-war world she struggled with. A foppish, vain, and selfish young man. He was also married. Dorothea refrained from saying anything.

* * *

Being at Aunt Alicia's felt normal this time. Edith was making the mental transition between the walls of the hospital and the outside world. The walls of St. Bride's represented two extremes. It held nightmares, like the night when she had been awoken by that poor, distressed patient. Ironically, it also represented safety.

She remembered a kind Scottish nurse talking to her, not long after she'd been admitted.

"Sometimes, my dear, it isn't what we do for you while you're with us, so much as having the rest, the time away from all the pressures of life. Her soft, lilting voice and the way she said the R's was soothing and it resonated with Edith.

But, you couldn't stay there forever avoiding your problems. It was different for the poor souls in the long-stay wards, locked away in their own troubled worlds, or forgotten and rejected by families. So many sad stories.

But, for now, she was out. She had confronted some issues she'd buried away. She'd made some tentative plans. Or at least accepted the need for change. There were still a couple of things though, she needed to deal with. Matthew was one.

She stood at Aunt Alicia's sitting-room window, losing herself in the view. The day was sunny and cold. She and her aunt had wrapped up warm and taken the black Labrador, Monty, for a walk earlier in the afternoon and now Aunt Alicia was having a lie-down before tea. A well-deserved lie-down. Edith had been amazed at the older woman's fitness. She'd easily been able to keep up with Edith as they set out across lanes, and even over a couple of stiles and across a field to a local beauty spot, where the vista of the dale became panoramic and you didn't know where to look next, so rich and absorbing was the view.

The fresh air and the exercise had worked. Why didn't the hospital and the psychiatrists recommend it more for people whose minds were troubled? Why didn't everybody pay more attention to the healing powers of the natural world?

She heard a cough and turned round quickly, startled. Esther Kirk stood there, her figure slim, colourless in a black dress and dark grey cardigan. A nun. That's what she reminds me of—a nun.

"Are you quite well, Miss Horton?"

Edith felt uncomfortable. "Yes, fine, thank you, Miss Kirk. My aunt has gone for a lie-down and I am just taking in the view." She expected the companion to go then, but Esther Kirk didn't. She stood there, as though waiting for something. Her stillness was eerie.

Edith mentally shook herself. What's she thinking? There was nothing wrong—it really was in her head. She resolved to behave normally. "Are you enjoying living here, working for my aunt?" She moved and sat on the padded arm of the sofa, it might put her at a disadvantage, but she couldn't continue standing at the window.

"Quite well, thank you, Miss Horton. I'm sorry that you have been unwell. I have prayed for you. Sickness of the mind is a very terrible thing."

Edith needed to end the conversation. She couldn't work out whether Esther Kirk had an unhealthy fascination with mental illness or some other purpose for pursuing this conversation. Whatever it was, she wasn't going to indulge her. "Yes, I am recovering, thank you for your concern. I think I'll go to the telephone now, if you'll excuse me. My friend, Mrs. Etherington is visiting later and I need to confirm the time."

"Ah, Mrs. Etherington—a very charming woman. I would have thought any man would be happy to have such a wife to come home to."

Edith frowned, stopped herself, and assumed a blank look. This woman was a menace. She had no real grounds for thinking this, but she knew it. She went out to the hall to the telephone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Esther Kirk go to the fire to check it.

She would say something to Aunt Alicia. How must it be for her aunt alone, in this house, with that woman, weeks at a time? At the very least, the woman was peculiar. And she must be bad if a woman on leave from the asylum notices it.

"Let's go for a drink." Julia suggested, as soon as she'd greeted Aunt Alicia.

"What, you mean, a public house drink, on our own, no man in tow?" Edith asked.

"There are two of us, unless you'd like to join us, Miss Horton,"

"I don't think so, dear. But you two go. You've both served your country. I don't see why you shouldn't be free to go into a public house."

Edith's eyes widened. "You surprise me sometimes, Aunt Alicia."

"Yes, well many of these public houses have saloons or whatever it is they are called. Anyway, a part of the inn suitable for respectable ladies. I would avoid the Dalesman though, it can be a bit rough, I believe."

"Aunt Alicia, you sound like you are an experienced pub-goer. I'll be wondering what you get up to when I'm not here."

The two women ended up at The Blind Beggar, about four miles from Ellbeck.

The landlord, complete with whiskers and a big wraparound apron seemed disconcerted when Edith followed her friend in, looking behind them, waiting for a man to enter in their wake. "Ladies, perhaps you'd like to sit through in the lounge area?"

It was a request, but he didn't expect them to argue the toss.

"Port and lemon, gin and it? What do you fancy?"

"Mmm, Julia, not sure. Well, maybe a gin and tonic.

"Remind you of times long gone?" asked Julia as she returned with a tray. She sounded sad.

"Yes, I love the countryside, but I do miss London life sometimes." There no one would have batted an eyelid if they had chosen to go out for a drink...without male company. "I mean it's different for you, Julia, you have made your life here, Giles, the children."

"Oh, Edith, if you only knew."

Edith's heart stopped for a second. "Is something the matter?"

"No, not really, nothing for you to worry about. For heaven's sake, I'm supposed to be taking you out of yourself, not dragging you down. There's nothing wrong. Giles has moods, is distant some of the time. I suppose not one of them came back completely unscathed. That unbelievable brotherhood they used to mention, it's a lot for a family—a woman, to replace..."

"Oh, Julia. It was so good he came back and you both at least had a chance. It seems such a shame...." Pain crossed Julia's face, and she could have kicked herself. What was she saying? When had she become so bloody tactless? "I'm sorry," she said. "I hope things get better. Talk about unsettled. I think I might make a change myself." She saw the look on her friend's face. "No, I don't mean the minute I come out of hospital. I mean later on. In the spring, maybe."

"Change? What do you mean? Not move?"

Edith put her glass back on the table and looked at Julia. "I do mean that. I think I need to get out of Yorkshire, maybe get back to the city—not forever, maybe. I don't know...I think I need to put some miles between me and Archie, and me and Ellbeck for some time at least."

"God, I'm being selfish here, Edith, but I hate the idea of you going."

"I know.

I'm probably not going to leave forever. I have very mixed feelings about city life, you know? But, these days there's something appealing in the thought of disappearing into a crowd."

"You're not the only one who sometimes thinks about disappearing, Edith. Oh, I won't, don't worry. I don't suppose I'm going to do anything rash." She pulled a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and they both lit up. "Archie?" Julia's voice was unsure.

"Yes, what about Archie?"

"Well, is it any better? I suppose he's been under a terrific amount of pressure—maybe that's all it was, you know, the business about you coming home. The straw that broke the camel's back...sort of thing."

"Thanks," said Edith, but she smiled. "I think he's coming round a bit yes. Not quite seeing me as the madwoman in the attic. He hates all the talk going on in the village though. It's so stupid. If Archie was ever to do away with anyone, I don't think it would be about money. He's not very good with it actually. Between you and me, well, I suppose he's pretty hopeless. Before I came back, there were bills unpaid, invoices not sent out. The practice was a shambles. I never could understand why he didn't take on a secretary. He didn't want anyone around, I think, in the early days, apart from Mrs. Braithwaite, that is."

Edith stopped talking, grew still. A young man and woman had come into the lounge. "It's Mrs. Butler's stepson and stepdaughter," she said. "Don't look now." She was hoping they would not look in her and Julia's direction, not speak to them. For all she knew, they too were gunning for her brother. But, it was a forlorn hope. There were only four of them, in the lounge bar.

"Miss Horton, isn't it? The doctor's sister?" It was the stepson, Roderick, she remembered.

"Yes, that's right."

"How's the doctor?"

"He's well. But, as a matter of fact, I am visiting our aunt."

"Ah, yes," Caroline's voice was pleasant—melodious.

Edith heard she had aspirations to act. She looked at her now, trying to visualise it. Perhaps she had unusual looks rather than conventional beauty, but there was something vaguely commanding too, something that might work on the stage.

"Mummy's companion, Esther, went to work with your aunt. Didn't she?"

"Yes," Edith was at a loss as to what else to say. It was difficult to say much about the woman. "I think she said she'd worked for your stepmother for quite a while?"

"Gosh, yes, peculiar type," Roderick put in. "Some sort of religious mania, I believe."

"Oh, Rod," his sister interjected. "Stow it, she has no such thing, take no notice of him, Miss Horton. She was a perfectly good companion to mummy, who never had a bad word to say against her.

"By the way, how is your brother, the doctor?"

Roderick spoke casually. Edith heard a challenge in the words. She felt a rush, that uncomfortable, hair standing on end feeling that presaged many of her worse attacks of anxiety. She told herself not to be so stupid. In itself, it was an innocuous remark. "He's all right, thank you."

"Must make life a bit easier now he's been left a bit of money."

Julia put her hand on Edith's arm. "I don't think this is the best subject for a public conversation, in the circumstances."

He gave a false, irritatingly braying laugh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. Not at all, last thought in my head. Let me get you both a drink? To make up for anything I may have said?"

"No, thank you," Edith said. The evening was ruined. It would have been so good to enjoy a bit of normality for once. She wanted badly to get back to her aunt's house and the refuge of her bedroom there, but Julia was talking.

"No, let's have another drink, Edith. Thank you, Mr. Butler. We'll have the same again."

Roderick left the lounge and his sister wandered across to the other side of the room,"

"Julia, what did you go and do that for? He's a supercilious, little twit...chinless wonder. I wanted to go home." Edith whispered.

"No, brazen it out. I don't know what he's trying to do, but you mustn't let him see that he's upsetting you. Come on Edie, we've faced down better than him, in our day."

She was right. Her words had such a bracing effect. A step in the right direction, in getting better, was to stop over-reacting and being so sensitive. "Right," she said, "You're right. Thanks, pal."

Caroline had wandered back in their direction again, as though she had something to say. "I'd quite like to catch up with Esther again. Whatever rubbish my brother talks, she's all right. I had some good talks with her over the years. She has more to her than meets the eye—something you don't always get up here in the sticks, eh?" She gave a nervous giggle. "Perhaps you might tell her that I will call and see her tomorrow afternoon, if it will be all right with your aunt."

"I'm sure it would be fine with my aunt. I'll pass the message on." She paused. "Are you and your brother staying at Brook House?"

"Yes, quite fun, fending for ourselves, isn't it, Rod?"

Her brother had returned with the drinks and agreed life without being waited on was quite a jape. "Almost like camping, you know."

Edith caught Julia's eye and had to look away quickly.

Chapter 15

"So, according to Mary Whitchurch, Joshua Braithwaite is a fine fellow, but no one else has a good word to say for him. His wife looks far from happy and he's cropping up everywhere, isn't he? Worked at Mrs. Butler's, still works at the Arbuthnots. Trouble in both houses and my laddo's always about. I didn't like the way he was with Arthur Arbuthnot in the pub, neither. Insinuating, like he knew something. He's a piece of work, I'm sure of it. And this mysterious job, down south for several years after the war. So what was that about? I want you to question him, Brown. My hunch is that he's stuck in the middle of this somewhere—you mark my words."

"What about Miss Sowerby, sir? Shouldn't I be doing something about her?"

"You do what you're told, lad. Let me worry about Miss Prudence. I'm better dealing with these mature ladies, where a bit of natural sensitivity is called for—they see nobbut a lad when they clap eyes on you, Brown. Take yourself off to interview Braithwaite. Any trouble out of him and you bring him in here, sharpish.

* * *

Josh Braithwaite was in his shed, chopping wood. He looked Brown up and down and continued chopping.

Brown was at a disadvantage—his age for one thing, It was well and good Greene seeing the need to be the one to deal with the mature woman, and he had changed his tune about who should deal with Miss Prudence. But what about the mature man—especially one who'd served his country and didn't shy away from telling everybody. Now, Joshua Braithwaite didn't need to say anything to make it plain that to him, Brown was nothing but a half-formed boy.

I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Braithwaite," he began, when the older man finally stopped sawing and began brushing down his blue overalls.

"Talk away, lad." Braithwaite shuffled a cigarette out of the packet, using only one hand and after lighting up, screwing up his eyes and inhaling deeply.

"Well, I wondered if maybe if it might be a bit better in the house."

Braithwaite shrugged. "If you like, though I can't see what's wrong with it in here, it's quiet, we won't be disturbed. Missus and kids are out, so no chance of a cup of tea."

Obviously wouldn't occur to him to put the kettle on. His own mother had made sure he could do for himself, if he had to. Now he felt at a distinct disadvantage as Braithwaite perched on a bench.

The older man indicated a stool, an amused look on the narrow features. He waited in silence for Brown to speak.

"You worked as a handyman, or driver for Mrs. Butler, is that right?"

"Yes, more driver than handyman, but yes, until the poor old soul passed away."

"We are concerned about her death. You will have heard about it, I'm sure. Her body has been exhumed and we found excess levels of a heart drug in it. So, we are talking to more or less everyone in the village, especially anyone who worked in the house."

"And what in particular is it you wanted to know about, lad?"

Brown wished he would stop calling him that, but tried not to let his irritation distract him. For all Braithwaite's couldn't care less attitude, Brown had a funny feeling he wasn't quite as unconcerned as all that. The muscles in his shoulders and arms looked tight, and he was drawing deep on the cigarette. "We wanted to know anything at all, anything out of the ordinary that might have happened, particularly before she died."

He waited. He had taken that piece of Greene's advice on board. "Wait until you see the whites of their eyes, Brown."

He wasn't sure if the hunting comparison was exactly right for this situation, but for the first time he could understand what Greene had meant. He bided his time.

"No unusual visitors, no extra trips out, nothing at all unusual, not that I saw or heard, any road."

It was like there was a little imp in Brown's head driving him on. "You were friendly with Mary Whitchurch. What about the other staff members? Stella, for instance, or the Kirk woman?

Braithwaite shrugged. "All the same to me, women. Pays to get on with them, I suppose, in that sort of job, living in each other's pockets like. Women can cause trouble otherwise, Brown, I mean...sergeant. As you'll find out for yourself one of these fine days."

"You came back to Ellbeck how long ago now?"

There was an instant change in the man. He got down from his perch and began moving to the direction of the pile of logs, obviously about to stack them. "Two years ago."

"And before that, you were working down south, is that right?"

"Yes, I was working down South. Not that I can see it has anything at all to do with what you say happened to Mrs. Butler, or anything to do with you for that matter."

"We are investigating a..."

"Yes, yes," Braithwaite interrupted. "You're investigating a serious matter and we all have a duty to cooperate with you while you're doing it? That it, is it, lad? You mightn't think it, to look at me, but I've been to the pictures, too, in my time. I know the spiel."

"So, you won't mind telling me where you worked then? Down South?"

Braithwaite straightened himself up and came up close to Brown. "Well, you're wrong there. I do mind. You come back here and tell me exactly why my whereabouts more than two years ago has anything to do with Mrs. Butler, and I might consider answering you. Or better still, tell the top man to come himself, not send the boy. Eh? Do you hear me Sergeant Brown?"

"I'll report back to Inspector Greene on what you've said, then. I reckon I may as well leave you to it. Good day to you." Brown was seething as he walked back down the lane. He kept having imaginary conversations with Braithwaite, in his mind. Then, as he neared the church, it came to him.

He hadn't lost the round, not really. Braithwaite was the one who was worried. Actually, it wouldn't surprise him one bit, if he took to his heels and left Ellbeck. He quickened his pace back to the police house.

* * *

Julia Etherington listened to the thump, thump of her heart as she went through Giles's wardrobe. Whatever had got into her? If anyone had told her, even last week that she would stoop so low as to search her husbands' pockets, she would have laughed at them.

But, she'd woken in the middle of the night with the absolute conviction there must be another woman. In fact, she couldn't believe it had taken her so long to cotton on. The harshness of the morning light was determinedly forcing its way through a gap in the curtains. She had been looking in the dark, for what was there in the light.

How stupid she'd been, thinking about a return of shell shock, ill health, business worries. When all the time, the most obvious reason for his distance, and coldness, and sarcasm, was the oldest one in the book. An affair. How crass and unfair. He was the one doing wrong. She was the one who was being made to feel miserable and guilty. She would confront him, when he got back from his so-called trip to London.

But, as she sat downstairs in the cold breakfast room, drinking a strong cup of tea, she realised this would not do for her. She couldn't wait. Now the possibility had got into her, like a bacteria in the bloodstream, she needed to take drastic action. She had to bring things to a head. She had to know.

For a long time, it seemed like she was going to find nothing. Then, like watching a play in the theatre, she saw herself take a blue envelope from the inside pocket of his second best lounge suit. The words were casual rather than passionate. That assumption of her, Amanda's place in Giles's heart made Julia clench her eyes shut, and grip the letter until it began to tear.

"See you, next week, usual place. Missing you a lot. Hope you'll be able to get away without any trouble. I'm going to see my friend, Chloe, (again!)."

Something made Julia re-read the last sentence. Slowly, the significance of it dawned on her. The woman must be married as well. Otherwise, why would she need to be making excuses to see him? Maybe not a serious threat, just a bit of so-called fun? But then the other words of the letter were cosy, familiar, asking if his cold was better, warning him not to work too hard. Like a wife, really.

She heard a noise. A housemaid getting up, probably. Soon the day would begin, and she didn't know how she was going to cope with it. She had to have a little time on her own before she could pretend everything was normal, so she quickly bathed and dressed in her warm skirt, automatically looking for a jumper that matched.

Then she stopped herself. Anything would do. Who cared what she looked like anyway? Not her husband. Desolation entered her heart. Was that it then? Would anybody ever care what she looked like, ever again?

Stop being melodramatic.

The grass on either side of the terrace was sprinkled with glittering frost, and the air was fresh and clean. The first frost of the autumn. Had Paddy taken in the more delicate plants? Probably. He was an accurate weather forecaster.

She touched the urn on the right side of the path, relishing the cold roughness of the stone, scraping the knuckles of her hand, along the surface until it stung. She had an urge to sit on the steps, and just stop. Be still and stay her thoughts. The house, the gardens, probably even these urns had been here before she was born, and would be here after she was gone.

And that won't be very long. Anger overwhelmed her, making her abandon trying to sit still on the steps. She walked fast down the drive, and over the stile, into the meadow. She needed to exercise, exhaust herself, until she couldn't move or think anymore. But images forced themselves into her mind's eye, and into her heart. It was hateful, but she couldn't seem to control them.

This can't be happening. She couldn't give in without a fight. She needed to see him, this minute, ask him if he's having a nervous breakdown or something. How could he jeopardise everything he's got here? But the hardest thing of all was memory. One in particular, kept intruding, causing a heavy pain in her chest; a pain that made her clutch herself, wrapping her arms around her body.

It was shortly after the crazy celebration of the Armistice, which had felt wrong somehow, to her and Edie. Giles had begged her to try to wrangle some time off from the hospital, and come back here to the country with him, to stay with his parents. "Won't they want you to themselves?" she'd asked.

"After the last few years, it's about what I want, Jules, and what l want is to spend time with you in the country, away from the noise. Please?"

How could she refuse? She would move hell and high water to get leave from the hospital.

He periodically complained of noise, traffic, trains. Even raucous laughter in the street made him wince as though in pain.

He'd met her at the little train station, taken her home to warm fires, and so much love she'd felt a strong conviction she would never be lonely again. They had got through the last few years of the war somehow, her and Giles. In the midst of the guilt and sorrow for those who hadn't survived, they walked in this very meadow. It had been mown for the late hay, and the stubble made walking difficult. He had led her to the edge and put his arms around her, against the great oak tree, there in the far corner.

Now, in this similar, but so different place, she could remember the earth and smoke smell of autumn, the crunch of leaves, the feel and whisper of the wind, and Giles holding her.

We survived," he said. "Promise you'll never leave me. I want to put the last few years behind us. Start again. We're still young. We'll have children, build a good life for ourselves out of the wreckage."

She'd nodded her head and leaned against him. She never wanted to move from the spot, the day. It had felt like the most significant moment of her life.

And was all a big lie. How could he have changed from that man, whom she would have trusted with her life, had trusted with her heart, into just another cheating man? Reduced to sneaking around with his mistress behind his wife's back.

This was no good. She would have to go back to the house, stop worrying at the questions without answers. Walking slowly now, not looking back at the oak tree, she made her way back to the terrace.

Chapter 16

"What are your strongest memories of your childhood?"

Edith felt awkward, far too self-conscious, too aware she was sitting here and the man sitting at an angle to her was making a conscious effort to emulate techniques he had learned about—that she was in fact a bit of a guinea pig.

"I remember feeling very safe and secure, as a small child. We had a nursery and a nurse and mother and father were kind and good, though daddy was always very busy and we weren't supposed to disturb him."

This was so stupid. What was he trying to uncover? Was he trying to prove Edith was in here because of some forgotten trauma buried deep?" Well, that was stupid. She was here because of what happened in the near past. That was what had caused her to have the breakdown. There-was no mystery to it.

"Look, Dr. Uxbridge. I honestly don't see the point in talking about my childhood. It was ordinary, privileged, I suppose. My brother and I were brought up in a happy home. Like a lot of other people, our lives and what we imagined would be our futures were turned upside down by the war. That's where my problems lie—I'm sure of that."

"I understand what you're saying, Edith, but bear with me please. What happens to us as children, good or bad, shapes the rest of our lives. You say both you and your brother had a happy childhood?"

Edith shifted uneasily in her chair. "As young children, yes. Maybe not quite so much as we began to grow up. Then there were differences."

"With your parents?"

"With my father. My mother was a quiet woman—anything for a quiet life, you might say. My brother had always wanted to be a doctor—he'd been away to school, studied the sciences, done well. And then, suddenly he didn't want to do any of it.

There were a lot of rows. He left home for a while. I was sixteen. It was awful. My mother was distraught. My father went about with a black look on his face. Then something happened. I'm not sure what exactly. But someone, some friend of my parents spotted him.

He'd managed to get to London and he was working in a kitchen somewhere in Ealing. There was to-ing and fro-ing to London." Edith stood up, went to the window, and returned to her seat. Her body was beginning to ache and she recognised the tension in her muscles.

"He came back after about a month. Things settled down again. He went to university, qualified with no problems as a doctor. Everything went back to normal. I think something did happen again when he qualified, a disagreement about Archie coming back to take over dad's practice. But, Archie managed to win this one, persuading dad that he needed hospital experience. Then there was the war, which changed everything. After the war, Archie needed no persuading—he came back to Yorkshire, by which time my father was ready to retire."

"So, your brother had his moment of rebellion. What about you?"

This surprised her. In spite of herself she'd become absorbed in telling Archie's story. She still couldn't understand where this was leading. But, maybe there was a point to it all and she should go with it. "There was no need to argue with me, was there? There were no expectations. I was to stay at home, help in the practice, and in due course, get married."

In an irritating way, he sat there and said nothing. "But, life had other things in store," she said.

* * *

She stopped fighting against it all eventually and in giving up the battle, something released inside herself. She no longer noticed the grimness of the room, the tin plates, the mocking warders.

She imagined instead that she was a thrush soaring high over the lush green countryside, swooping and flying, singing for joy. She entered valleys of corn, flew close down over somnolent grazing cows, perched on lush, full-leaved oak trees, and sang for the joy and beauty of it all. She almost felt happy.

Somehow, she'd touched bottom and soon, when she was ready to leave her dream world and the beautiful images in her mind she would, like the thrush, soar again, higher and higher. She almost had to close her eyes against the true searing blue of the sky.

* * *

"What do you mean, going, Josh? Where on earth are you going?"

"Don't mither me with questions, woman. I have to go, a bit of business. Get out of my way and let me get myself ready."

Cathy's heart was pounding. Her parents' voices were clear, even though they were upstairs. Their bedroom door must be open and their words were audible downstairs.

Her mother sounded on the verge of hysteria as she said, "What do you mean a bit of business? It's seven o'clock in the evening. What about your job? What am I supposed to say if Mr. Arbuthnot, or that estate manager comes looking for you?"

Oh, let him go. A brief vision of life as it used to be—and could be again, flashed before her eyes.

"Say nothing. You don't know where I am. I was called away to do a job and that's all you know. Now, for crying out loud, woman, get out of my road and let me get the rest of my things packed."

Cathy grabbed the torch and ran outside to the shed. She reckoned she had at least a few minutes while they were still upstairs.

The envelope was gone from the pile of sacking.

Her mother's face was white, and her hands were clenched in front of her as she waited now at the foot of the stairs. Cathy didn't speak. Her mother looked still and stiff as a statue. Josh Braithwaite lugged his old army case down the stairs. Cathy could visualise it neatly packed, trousers and shirts folded perfectly.

"Are you going to the station?" Her mother's voice sounded lifeless now. She'd given up questioning and pleading—had accepted that he was going, as she had to accept everything else—his return, for instance.

"Well, as I don't own a motor car, yes, I'll be getting the train."

"But, it's quite a step to the station, Joshua. How're you getting there?"

Her father was checking his pockets, checking that he had a wallet, fags—and brown envelope stuffed full of big five-pound notes, too?

"Shanks' pony. 'Ow do you think?"

"Will you write?"

Josh shrugged. "If I 'ave the time. Oh, I get you now. Of course. Will I send money, d'ya mean? Well, we'll have to see won't we? I'll have to see what pans out, with work and all."

You bastard. It was the worst word she knew. Nasty to the end.

"Won't you say goodbye to our John, before you go?"

"Oh, for God's sake woman. Will you stop fussing? The less the kid knows, the better. He's young, Cathy 'ere as enough sense to keep 'er trap shut, but I don't want the lad up and down, telling my business. "Be a good girl, Cathy." He nodded at his wife and went through the door. His shoulders looked freer as if a heavy burden had been lifted.

Cathy and her mother stood for a moment, in a heavy silence. I'll put the kettle on, mam," she said.

* * *

This weekend was better from the start. Surely, it wasn't only that conversation she'd had with Dr. Uxbridge. But, she felt lighter. The tension, the anxious feelings, the trouble sleeping all seemed to have departed. But, she'd had false dawns before. She must not get carried away.

"Esther's away this weekend," her aunt told her as soon as they got into the Morris Traveller. Actually, that was probably the start of the relaxation for Edith.

"How do you find her, Auntie? I shouldn't say so, I suppose, but she's not the easiest of people to have in the house, is she?"

"She's not too bad. I must admit, I have questioned whether I made the right decision employing her at all, but we are getting used to each other. As much as anything, she is quiet and reserved and maybe a bit more religious than normal. Anyway, if Elizabeth Butler had her in her house all that time, she must have been all right. Her stepdaughter, Elizabeth's I mean, Caroline, visited her on Monday. Now, she's a strange girl."

Edith laughed. "The pair of them are. She's a chinless wonder too. She's an actress, it seems, or aspires to be one. I'm not sure. A different world to the one I'm used to."

* * *

Her father had been gone a whole night and day—twenty-four hours. John had said little when his mother said dad had gone back down south. Now that he hadn't got the job at Mrs. Butler's times weren't too good for the sort of odd jobs and maintenance that he usually did, so Hannah's explanation was calm, believable. Both wages and job prospects were better around the London area.

Hannah's ideas of the London area were vague, and Cathy knew through her reading that London wasn't the same as Harrogate or even Leeds. You had to travel a long way out of the city before you found something like a farm, for instance.

"Has he got a job lined up?" was all John asked and their mother gave a vague response about his knowing lots of people and how they would put the word out that he was looking for something. After that, John went back to looking inwards and asked no more questions.

The whole thing was suspicious. Her father had looked like a person running away from something rather than towards something. And then there was the business with the envelope. She was convinced it contained money. She longed to ask her mother questions because she couldn't figure out how much she knew.

But there was something about her mother since dad left that put Cathy off asking her anything. She went about all the jobs as usual. She even went to work at the Horton's, came home, and cooked a ham pie with yesterday's leftovers. But, she was going through the motions.

Cathy couldn't feel sad about her father going. Look at the way he hadn't said a proper goodbye to her and said nothing at all to her mother. Cathy didn't know that much about marriage, but it probably wasn't like a romantic novel. But the way her parents were wasn't right. It was impossible, for instance, to imagine them ever being in love, laughing, enjoying their time together, yet, they must have done, once, mustn't they?"

Her mother's behaviour was still odd, too. It wasn't exactly that she expected her to be jumping for joy her husband had left, but why was she going about looking so sad? Their life together had been terrible, for goodness' sake. What was there to miss?

Though the air in the house felt heavy with unsaid things, it was still peaceful. It felt secure, in a way it hadn't done for a long time. Cathy let herself hope that he would stay away. She wasn't proud of that feeling and wished it could be different, but maybe it was the same for any child who'd grown up without a father being around. It was like not having one at all.

Her eyes felt heavy, but her mind was still jumping all over the place and she couldn't get past a particular chapter in her library book. Her mother was knitting a bottle green jumper for John and she was taking her mood out on the needles, knitting noisily and clicking her teeth when she dropped a stitch. John had already gone to bed, still silent on the subject of his father, still not saying much about anything.

"I think I'll go up," Then Cathy heard a noise. Oh, no. It was her father back, and goodness knew, in what sort of mood. There was a loud knock on the door. Her father wouldn't knock. Her mother dropped the knitting onto the armchair as she quickly got up. A piece of the green wool got tangled in her apron and she pulled at it impatiently.

"Answer the door, Cath."

Her legs feeling unsteady, Cathy went to the door. With a rare mild swear word, her mother untangled herself and joined her standing at her shoulder. It was Inspector Green and the younger one, the nice one who'd spoken to her in the shop the day he had come to see to the Sowerby sisters.

"What is it? Oh, God, what's happened?"

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Braithwaite. Sorry for frightening you. Nothing has happened. But, we do need to have a word with your husband. Do you mind if we come in?"

"No, I'm sorry. Of course. Are you sure there's nothing wrong? What am I thinking of, keeping you on the doorstep like this? Put kettle on Cathy."

"Thanks all the same, Mrs. Braithwaite, but it's your husband we've come to see. There's no need to be going to the trouble of making us tea. Is there Sergeant Brown?" He gave his underling no opportunity to respond. "So, you'll call him for us, then Missus? I expect he's round about? Unless he's slipped down to the Dalesman, or owt?"

Her mother looked guilty. But she hadn't done anything wrong, had she?

"He's not here, Inspector, I'm afraid—he's left."

"What do you mean, left?" said the inspector.

He sounded far from happy. In fact, his voice was angry. Her mother was never any good with angry men and Cathy could hear the terror in her voice as she stumbled with an answer.

"I don't rightly know, sir, Inspector I mean. Yesterday, it were. He took off like, didn't say where, or why. Just work you know. He's not a settled man, I suppose, Inspector, since the war you know..."

"Oh, don't give me that, Mrs. Braithwaite. That's a handy excuse for not being where we should expect to find him, isn't it?"

Cathy had enough. Without stopping to think, she said. "Don't you be bullying my mam, Inspector. She's done nothing wrong,"

Cathy paused for breath and to try to calm her pounding heart. She didn't want to come across as a common girl—what her mother called a fishwife. She mustn't raise her voice and she must try not to sound too countrified, dropping aitches all over the place and saying were instead of was. Nevertheless, she was going to fight her mother's corner.

No one spoke, but they were all looking at her in surprise, especially the inspector. You could say his mouth was open.

"My dad left. God knows why. We don't have a lot of say over when he goes or when he comes and that includes my mother. He says what he's going to do and that's the end of it, no discussion. So, it isn't right to be getting on at my mother." Her voice trailed off as if she had lost all her spark of spirit. She felt like a frightened child and couldn't quite believe the way she'd been speaking.

The inspector was the first to speak. "Now, lass, there's no bullying going on at all, far from it. I'm sorry if that's what it sounded like. I speak my mind, that's all. Put both feet in as my wife used to say. We want to speak to your father though, and I may have been a bit frustrated when I heard he's flown the nest."

Cathy's confidence soared back. Imagine a grown man, an Inspector, no less, taking her seriously like that.

"And you're a good girl to stand up for your mother."

"She's a good girl, Inspector. I'm lucky with my children."

Her mother sounded more normal than she had since her father's departure. Maybe that little exchange with the inspector had done her mother good, brought back her spirit.

Hannah Braithwaite rinsed out the big brown teapot. They were seated at the kitchen table, the sugar bowl that had always been there, on the centre on the new oilcloth her mother had brought from the market for last Christmas. Hannah put a plate of cake and the teacups in front of the two men. It was clear she was again in charge in her own kitchen.

"If he's gone, he's gone, I suppose," said the inspector. "Though I won't pretend it hasn't made our job a lot more complicated. But we do need to talk to you anyway. Mrs. Braithwaite."

Chapter 17

Hannah Braithwaite looked at her daughter.

"Go upstairs to your room, please Cathy," her voice was calm, once more back in command of herself as well as her home.

"No," The word was out before Cathy realised she was going to say it, but she meant it. She was not going to be sent upstairs like a child. "Sorry, mam, if that sounded rude, but I mean it. I'm not a child. I'm sixteen. You can't always keep everything a secret."

Her mother sat heavily down on one of the kitchen chairs and Cathy felt guilty but she didn't waver. "All right, but you won't like what you hear."

Cathy's heart pounded and she wished she had gone upstairs. Once you heard something, knew something, you could never go back to how things were.

The inspector put his cup back onto the saucer, and glanced at her before looking properly at her mother. "We know he has a criminal record, your husband, and we know now that he has spent time in prison."

Cathy sat rigid, a load of horrible possibilities crowding into her mind in what seemed like a few seconds.

"He's always been fond of money, Inspector, too fond."

"He did time for blackmail, extortion, and theft, quite a list."

"He's a complicated man, Inspector. I'm not defending him, but he also got a medal for bravery in battle, risking life and limb to rescue two wounded comrades trapped in the line of fire. Different, you see. Reckless courage, in some situations, but also reckless in other ways."

"You could be right there, Mrs. Braithwaite. But, in the light of what's been going on in Ellbeck, all this information is very important and we could have done with knowing it before now."

Cathy was reeling after what she'd just heard and she had a load of questions to ask her mother when the police had gone. She knew what blackmail was, or she had a vague idea. But, what was extortion? The envelope flashed into her mind. Should she say something? Maybe not for the moment.

"Inspector, I don't think my husband could have had anything to do with Mrs. Butler's death. Why on earth would he? He wasn't left anything in her will like some of the other employees were. He hadn't been there all that long, and he was fairly casual like. As for the letters, I'd be more than surprised...not his style at all. I barely got a line once a month from him when he was overseas. He's not a letter-writer, Inspector."

"But, you're aware that there have been these letters going around."

Her mother nodded and then looked uneasy.

"But, you haven't had one?"

"No."

"Maybe that could be seen as a bit strange in itself."

Hannah didn't rise to that one. "Well from what I've heard Inspector, it seems more the gentlefolk round about that have had the nasty letters. Maybe the likes of me and my family aren't worth anything to anybody, or maybe we don't have as much to lose."

So far, the sergeant hadn't said anything, now he dared to speak, "So, have you no idea where your husband went when he left...yesterday, wasn't it, you said?"

"No, we had very short notice indeed that he was going. He came back and instantly started packing in a hurry. He said that if anyone came looking, I was to say that he had gone down south in search of a job."

"He got the train?" The inspector spoke again.

"As far as I know, he gave me that impression and he left here about half after six in the evening, yesterday. He said he was walking to the station."

"Twenty minutes' walk at least...train down south, right, lad, get down to it," the inspector had moved on, it seemed. He stood, the sergeant hurriedly mirroring his movement, "The minute you hear anything, Missus...I don't need to tell you how important it is that you let us know."

Hannah nodded, "I'm not expecting to hear anything any time soon, like I say, he isn't the best to keep in touch, but yes, if I hear anything, I'll be in touch."

Cathy couldn't wait until the policeman left to speak, but her mother put her hand on her arm, and shook her head. That was unusual in itself, her mother touching her like that.

"Cathy, I know you have a hundred and one questions to ask, but not now, love, please not now. It's all too much." Her voice shook and her mouth began to tremble. Cathy couldn't bear to see it. "Don't worry, mam. It'll keep. Can I get you anything? More tea?"

Her mother seemed to make a big effort and smiled. "No, pet, I've had enough tea to sink a ship. Tell you what. Pour us both a glass of my damson wine. Mind you make it two good big glasses."

* * *

"So, do you feel like coming over? A walk? Bit of a picnic? Some supper afterwards...your aunt too, if she'd like."

"I'll ask, but I doubt it. She's been encouraging me to see people, go out and about. In fact, I've tried to get hold of Julia but she hasn't been answering her telephone. I've left a couple of messages with her housemaid. It's a bit strange that she hasn't got back to me, but she's probably busy, what with the children's half-term coming up. Anyway, I'm gabbling on. The answer to your question is, yes, I'd love a walk. I need to call in at...at home for my walking shoes and I'll be with you, about three. Is that all right, Henry?"

"Perfect, see you then, and wrap up. It's an unpredictable time of the year, autumn, sunny one minute and a storm the next." Henry answered.

Edith's heart was lighter than it had for a long time, when she put down the phone. Again, she tried to avoid reading too much into the feeling, but maybe learning to live for the moment was part of the cure. Perhaps just enjoying the good times when they came along. The idea of going for a walk with Henry Wilkes, going to supper with him felt good and normal—even though it wasn't something she'd ever done before.

It was strictly as pals though. That went without saying. Never, ever again was she going to get obsessed with any man. She had steered clear for several years and that's exactly what she intended to do in the future. Whatever Dr. Uxbridge's theories about the distant past were, it was a relationship with a man that brought her to a breakdown. Even if she looked upon Henry Wilkes in that way, which she did not, she was never going to risk any romantic entanglements again.

"That sounds like a lovely afternoon out, dear. But no, not for me—you young people enjoy yourselves. The moors should be lovely, though unfortunately you'll have missed the blooming of that wonderful heather."

Edith smiled at the "young people," but to her aunt they probably were...well, younger, anyway.

Henry called at quarter to three, the following day. Aunt Alicia had driven Edith down to the village to call home for her walking boots and warm trousers and jacket. She'd been glad Archie wasn't in—he'd gone into Harrogate for the day. He had come round to Aunt Alicia's on the Friday evening.

"Splendid idea, fresh air, you can't beat it. That is exactly what you need, old girl. Blow the cobwebs away and get you back on your feet."

"Lovely mix of metaphors there, Archie. So, you're a believer in the stoical, cold bath, fresh air, and exercise school of medicine, then?" Edith hated the caustic tone in her voice and laughed, "I daresay you have a point. Maybe they do know what they are talking about, all those Teutonic types with the belief in healthy minds in healthy bodies. The strange thing was that it did work, though not at first. At first, the slight uphill trudge was tiresome and hard going and Edith's mood was made worse by the realisation of how unfit she had become. It was the last thing she needed to feel, and she was angry with herself for being so irritable and ungracious.

She tried to keep it to herself, which was easy enough, as she had no breath left to speak. She grew very warm and this added to her discomfort. She was determined to persevere, to prove something.

Eventually, Henry said, "Do you feel like a stop? I've brought a bit of refreshment—nothing very fancy. Lizzie is off for the weekend, so I've done it myself, I'm afraid."

They found a sheltered spot under an overhanging rock and sat on their coats. Henry produced a roughly packed lunch of cheese and pickle sandwiches, cake, and a couple of apples. Even better, he had brought a thermos and poured them both out some tea.

"I think that is a strong contestant for the best cup of tea I've ever had in my life.

And there are a few in the competition."

"You seem an awful lot better, Edith," said Henry.

At that moment, she did feel better, too.

When Edith took her boots off and sat down in the armchair as Henry set a match to the fire, the tiredness she felt was of a different ilk to the weariness she'd felt for the previous weeks, even months. This was a pleasant drowsiness. That other had been a bone-weary ennui that had robbed her of her essence, making her a shadow of the woman she'd previously been. The company—-Henry was a restful and undemanding companion—was part of it, but it had also been the fresh air and the walking. The exhaustion and boredom had eventually given way to peace and a sense of achievement.

"Shall we have our supper on a tray?" asked Henry.

Lizzie had left a pan of stew and all he'd had to do was heat it up and butter some bread. "Sounds the perfect job," said Edith. "But, I should go out there with you and lend a hand instead of lazing in here." She was just being polite. In fact, lazing by the fire was exactly what she felt like doing.

"No, stay where you are. I'm perfectly capable of buttering a few slices of bread and shoving a bit of warmed-up stew into two bowls."

Edith smiled. She could get to like this. Not seriously, not in a relationship way, or anything, but in a friendship way. Then she remembered Julia with a twinge of worry. Tomorrow, before going back to St Bride's she was going to have to track down her friend.

There was a loud hammering on the door and she almost jumped out of her skin, panic burgeoning. So, her sense of relaxation was very tenuous indeed, it seemed. She'd instantly assumed the caller had something to do with her.

She stood up and went to fetch Henry from the kitchen, though there was no way he could have not heard the noise. Edith couldn't help herself going to stand by Henry as he opened the door. That a slightly muddy and dishevelled woman standing alongside the vicar at the door might look odd didn't occur to her. Nor did it dawn on her that, as Henry was the local vicar, it was likely the call had nothing at all to do with her.

They had drawn the curtains in the sitting room against the darkening night and had been concentrating on the fire and food with the smug feeling of entitlement that followed a good bout of exercise. So, they hadn't realised it had begun to rain. Not torrential rain, but cold, shivery rain that chilled you to the bone and the woman standing on the doorstep looked both cold and distraught.

Edith strained to make her out for an instant and then saw it was Miss Sowerby, the quieter, less colourful of the sisters. The one who, according to Archie, had taken herself off a couple of days ago.

"Much ado about nothing, I daresay," Archie had passed it off with a laugh. "Pair of old maids living together, working together, bound to go at it like hammer and tongs sometimes, stands to reason."

Edith hadn't taken a lot of notice of it, accepting that what Archie said was probably true, even though she didn't much like the way he put it.

"Mr. Wilkes, oh, Mr. Wilkes. May I come in and talk to you...I'm in such trouble and I've behaved so badly. Help me, oh, please help me."

By now, Prudence's voice had broken and she was shaking, from a combination of distress and cold. Henry was hurrying her in after a few seconds of shock, when he had stood looking at the woman on the doorstep.

"Oh, goodness, oh dear, and you have company. Miss Horton. I'm so sorry, vicar. Maybe I should come back?"

That last bit was spoken so pathetically, as if Prudence was trying to pretend everything was quite normal and this a social call, that Edith's heart went out to the poor woman. "No," she said, "I'm the one in the way and anyway, I should be getting back to my aunt's. I'll telephone her to tell her I'm ready to come home now. She'll be along in a quarter of an hour or so."

She had made up the bit about getting a lift from Aunt Alicia. Henry was going to drive her home, but a small lie could be forgiven, in the circumstances. "Look, I'll go back in the kitchen, Henry, and get a tray of tea ready and you can come through for it, when you like."

"Edith, that would be very good of you," Henry said quietly. He put an arm around the thin shoulders of Miss Sowerby, "Come through here, to the sitting-room. The fire should be going well by now and we'll have a good talk."

"A distressed parishioner, that's all. I was in the way, though. Thanks so much for coming for me, Aunt Alicia."

"It's a pleasure dear,"

Edith was glad her aunt didn't ask for more detail and then, realised she should have trusted her sensitivity.

Though she was pleasantly tired after her walk, Edith couldn't sleep. Her mind kept returning to Prudence Sowerby. The whole business was so strange. Why on earth would she disappear like that for days and then turn up on Henry's doorstep, clearly in distress? It was too much of a coincidence to be unrelated to what had happened in the village.

Some of her insomnia was caused by her impending return to St. Bride's tomorrow. It felt ever more alien to be going back there. She clung to the fact she was due to see Dr. Uxbridge.

She needed to pin something down and she must have a serious talk with both Archie and Julia. Julia was the only person who would be able to give her sound advice. The only person who really understood her.

Matthew. He'd seemed to understand too, to relate to the feeling of a life put on hold. But that had been an illusion, or had it? In her brother's opinion, she had made too much of a passing attraction, or friendship. She knew differently. Didn't she?

Chapter 18

Much as she hated to admit it to herself. Dorothea Arbuthnot was finding the presence of Helena in the house a huge strain. Helena was restless and Dorothea sensed there was some sort of crisis looming with this man, this Tom York. The unexpected trip back home was probably all about time to think or one of those inane things people decided they needed to do when they were locked in an impossible situation, unhappy but also revelling in the drama. Dorothea chided herself for her cynicism.

At least Arthur was occupying himself, though the way he was doing this was possibly not the healthiest. In his smoke-filled, yellowing, wallpapered study, with cracked leather furniture, Arthur had set up a mock battlefield. He had scrapbooks of newspaper accounts and now some published war memoirs. Immersed in this, he mentally fought the battles, and probably tried to change the endings.

She felt uneasy about this pastime of his, which had started very shortly after the armistice, but what could she do about it? For all she knew, Arthur may derive some consolation from his preoccupation and it was better for his health and her dignity if it kept him away from The Dalesman.

She hadn't said anything about the police inspector bringing him home, but she didn't need to. He would be feeling bad enough about it—what he could remember of the night. He'd been his sweet self to Helena and as always, courteous to her, so maybe she should be happy with that. The inspector's words had disturbed her though, and she wondered how much pressure he actually could put on her to talk and how much could she resist him?

Then her daughter came into the room and Dorothea turned to look at her. She put her hand to her throat, which suddenly felt restricted.

Helena was holding an envelope in her hand and on her face was an expression Dorothea didn't like. For a split second, she was afraid, but that was ridiculous. How had she been so criminally careless though?

"What does this mean, Mother?" Helena's voice was crystal-clear, each word perfectly enunciated, but then a tremor crossed her face. "This must have fallen out of your cardigan pocket while you were in the garden, this morning. I don't understand what it means."

Dorothea swallowed hard. Why did I carry it around in my pocket, like some ridiculous talisman?

The evil letter was the opposite of that, aimed to bring misery and bad fortune. Dorothea cleared her throat. It was difficult to speak. She rang the bell. "I need some tea, my throat is dry."

She held out her hand for the letter and after a few seconds hesitation, her daughter handed it to her. "Sit down, please dear. I'll do my best to explain it to you."

"Do your best to explain. I should think so, indeed. So, I'm a whore, and my brothers, Charles and Edward...what is all that about. Tell me mother. Don't even try to fob me off."

Dorothea heard the hysteria in Helena's voice and was glad when, after a light tap on the door, Betty, the parlour maid came into the room carrying a tray.

"Mother, you can't leave it hanging. You must tell me what this means?"

Helena was all big eyes and pallor, and Dorothea recognised the vulnerability beneath the brittleness. But, she couldn't tell her. All this was too big. She had to, at least attempt to talk to Arthur first. For all his withdrawal from life, all the drinking, this was as much his business, as hers—more so, in fact. She wasn't going to say anything until she'd spoken to him and Helena was just going to have to accept that. All she could do was buy a little time.

"Trust me, Helena, I will talk to you. I won't lie to you and say that this letter is based on complete untruths, though some of it is. But, I must talk to daddy first. We'll both talk to you later."

Helena, for once in her life, chose the easier option and nodded her head. She obviously understood this was serious and not the time to begin haranguing her mother for information.

* * *

"How did your parents react when you decided to train as a VAD?

Edith shifted in the chair. This was so contrived and she was losing patience with this vague amble through her life, in a search for clues, because that's what this was. She could only hope that there was method here somewhere, that one of the two of them knew where all this was going. It was tiring, though.

"They were not in favour of it. But, I was a grown woman and they couldn't exactly stop me. To be honest, I can't blame them. I don't think they had a clue what exactly it was that I would be doing, for all that my father was a doctor. After all...well, I don't suppose any of us had a clue what was coming, did we?"

He didn't answer her rhetorical question. "And you met your fiancé after the outbreak of war."

Edith shifted again in her chair. Her heart was pounding too fast and she began to feel hot. Blotches appeared in front of her eyes and she thought for a moment that she might faint. She took some deep, ragged breaths.

"You are feeling unwell, Edith?"

She nodded, not able to speak. But, she was beginning to feel better, her body returning to normal.

"Can I get you a drink of water?"

The doctor's voice still sounded strange, as though he was speaking from the other side of a tunnel. Edith shook her head, trying to return to normal. "Yes, please."

He poured a glass and handed it to her and she sipped the cold water. It was like nectar. It restored her further. "I'm sorry," she said, and she was. Why on earth had she had this extreme reaction to a quite innocuous question?

She had spoken about Alistair before. Not a lot, perhaps, but she was capable of talking about him without this reaction. He was long dead. She'd reached some sort of acceptance of that fact. It was no longer newly raw, agonisingly painful. It was a sadness—a sadness at the waste of it all—but no different from the grief suffered by countless others.

"Would you think it might be better to leave this for this session? I will see you again, when you return after next weekend's leave—when I think we can seriously discuss your discharge."

Edith's shoulders relaxed and her breathing slowed. She had been carrying such tension. She could not completely relax, though. "Dr. Uxbridge, I have no idea why I reacted like that when you asked about Alistair. To tell the truth, it has disturbed me, upset me. I thought I had come to terms with all of that a long time ago. I don't know why mention of him just now had such an effect on me."

"Let me reassure you, Edith. It is normal. You have been visiting again something that was a major event in your life, a very unhappy time. Trust me. Your reaction is normal. I may even go so far as to say, healthy."

* * *

They allowed her back onto the ward eventually. She could never figure out whether her time in the padded room had been about punishment or to keep everyone else safe. She could have told them she wasn't a danger to anyone else. All she asked was to be left in peace. If everyone left her alone, she would be the model patient. That Phyllis woman had pushed and pushed.

Though back on an ordinary ward, she could tell that things had changed. The staff were no longer so relaxed around her—her card had clearly been marked. Oh, well. She didn't need friends in this place. She did want to work though, but the ward sister made it very clear that wasn't going to happen in the foreseeable future. Once she had seen Phyllis in the distance, along the corridor. The woman flinched and she had felt a mixture of shame and power.

* * *

Beatrice was, as usual, uneasy at being expected to sit still. She was wriggling about in the chair, the need to be off doing something obvious in every line of her skinny body.

"Mummy, Beauty will be wondering where I am. I'm already half an hour late taking her out. It's not fair. What is it, anyway? Am I in trouble?"

Julia sighed. She was dreading this. "No, you're not in trouble, Bea. I was wondering if you would like a trip to London with me. Just for a few days, to see Auntie Hillary?"

"Why?" Beatrice had the characteristically set look on her small brown face. The severe plaits added to her air of self-sufficiency.

There was going to be no easy way out of this. "Because I want to go away for a few days, and I thought it would be nice if you came with me. I think Miss Fortescue will be fine about it. You don't often have time away from school.

"Is Daddy coming too?" There was a look of anxiety now on her face.

"No."

"Well I don't want to go."

Beatrice's stubbornness, a cause for amusement when she'd been a toddler, could now be a real nuisance. "Please, Bea, I do need to get away for a few days, and it's not fair on Mrs. Hardcastle to leave you here. She's a housekeeper, not a children's nurse."

That was the wrong thing to say. Beatrice wouldn't think she needed anybody to look after her, let alone a nurse.

"Anyway, I don't want to go, Mummy. I don't want to be away from school, or Beauty, or daddy either, actually. I heard you arguing last night. Why are you being so horrible to him? And now you're going off and leaving him."

Julia held onto her temper with difficulty. She hadn't been prepared for this. She chased around in her mind for where the child had been last night when she confronted Giles. "Go back to your riding, then, Bea. I'll talk it over with daddy, and we'll decide what's best." She wanted to put an arm around this the youngest and most difficult of her children, but it would be unwelcome.

Her anger of a few moments ago had been replaced with desolation. She'd done everything wrong last night. Everything. Gone against all she had so carefully planned. A mood of destructiveness had come over her as soon as she'd seen his car in the drive.

Don't go out, don't go out, she'd told herself. Normally, however shaky things were between them, she would have gone out into the hall, asked him about his trip, rang for a drink, seen about food. Instead, she'd remained in the sitting room, turned the wireless on, paced around, looked out the window, picked up a magazine, put it down.

He'd come looking for her. Force of habit, probably. She may not mean anything to him anymore, but she was still the first provider of home comforts. If his approach had been a tad different, she may have said nothing, at least until she'd worked a few things out in her mind.

He spoke to her in the way that had become normal to him recently. Why would he be any different? He had no reason to be on his guard.

"What's up with you, mooning about on your own, in here? Didn't you hear me come back? Where's Bea?"

"Bea is out in the stables with Beauty. And yes, I did hear you come back. And your trip to London. Enjoyable was it? Everything you expected?"

"Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Julia?"

"A note of sarcasm? I don't know what you mean. What did you and your chums get up to in London, then?"

He was looking at her properly, now and with, perhaps, a flicker of unease in the rapid movement of his eyes. She'd found him out, and he knew it. There was still a moment where she could have pulled back from the brink, and she nearly did.

She could have changed the subject and they could have talked about the boys, or the neighbours, or even the news from Ellbeck. But something had taken hold of her "So, what did you all get up to then, in town? With Herbert and Ronald and James, wasn't it?" How is old James? I haven't seen him for ages. And Ronald? Still the dashing airman? Still working for that air company?"

"What's this, Julia? You've obviously got a bee in your bonnet about something."

She laughed then, couldn't help herself. That was downplaying things, a bee in her bonnet indeed, typical Giles reaction. "I found a letter from your girlfriend, Amanda."

His face was a picture. His mouth literally dropped open, but only for a few seconds while he quickly pulled himself together. "You went through my pockets?"

It was a pathetic attempt at righteous indignation. "Yes, I did. You know why, Giles? Because I've been tormenting myself, searching for answers for the way you've been behaving lately. And then I woke up and the obvious answer came to me. And I was right, wasn't I?" Even now, there was a flicker of hope he would contradict her, tell her there'd been a mistake. She knew it was a forlorn one.

She looked at him, but he didn't meet her eye. He had a nonchalant air that made her feel quite cold.

Then he shrugged. "These things happen, Julia. We're adults. It's not the end of the world. I've no intention of leaving you. Amanda is married too. There doesn't have to be any broken homes here, as long as you don't over-react."

She didn't respond, and after waiting a few beats, he continued. "Marriages can go a bit stale. That's a fact. I felt the need for a bit of excitement. Otherwise, well, children, business, the village...it gets a bit monotonous. And is this what we fought a war for kind of thing..."What he said and the sound of that woman's name on his lips pierced her defences, in spite of what she had told herself, beforehand. The blasé way he spoke...Julia lost her temper and flew at him. She searched around in her mind for the most hurtful things she could find, and flung them at him. But all the time she was thinking bad things about herself. I must not be enough for him. Am I boring, harping on about the children all the time?

But the most devastating of all was the thought it was a lie, all of it. He must never have loved her. All that emotional talk after the war...he must have been caught up with the moment, needing to escape from what he'd been through. All this flooded her brain, but all she could do was shout clichés at him, words that sounded dreadful to her own ears, and which she despised herself for.

"You bastard, how could you do this to me? Don't think I'm going to be the good wifey at home. Because I'm not, Giles, do you hear?" She said much more in the same vein. She wondered now, what distinct words, if any Bea had heard. She had probably just heard her mother shrieking.

Giles hadn't raised his voice. "Oh, stop being so hysterical. You're behaving like a second-rate actress. Is it any wonder a chap would look for consolation, elsewhere?" At that, he'd left the room, no doubt fully recovered from his moment of discomfiture at being found out.

Bea had always been a daddy's girl. But Julia wasn't going to just walk out and let Giles have it all his own way. She could imagine him telling their child mummy was a bit overwrought, suffering with her nerves. That was not going to happen.

Chapter 19

"I don't think it is a visiting afternoon, but they allowed me to come anyway."

Edith was pathetically pleased to see her friend. Since talking about Alistair with Dr. Uxbridge she felt as though her skin, her nerve endings were all raw, exposed to the surface. It wasn't so much she needed to talk, but that she needed to be with another person, especially one of the few people who understood her.

It was clear Julia wasn't herself, though. She had the strong colour and the kind of looks that stood up well to tiredness and stress unlike Edith. But, whatever had happened had clearly affected her. Her skin was the colour of fresh milk and the two spots of rouge on her cheeks made her look worse. Also, her eyes were swollen.

"This must be a new low, coming into a hospital to unburden myself on a person who has had a breakdown." Julia gave a short laugh and missed the sight of Edith's wince.

"That may not be as crazy as you think. Reaching this low might have had some benefits for me—made me a bit more understanding for one thing."

"Sorry, Edith, I'm being tactless. I didn't mean that I shouldn't talk to you. Take no notice, please, I don't know what I'm saying or doing at the moment. You see..."

Edith looked at her directly now, and saw the tiniest signs in Julia's face, in her jaw line. She was steeling herself.

"Giles has been having an affair."

Edith stared at her. She was shocked, but didn't want to show how shocked, which would only make Julia feel worse. Her instincts had told her that something was amiss with Julia and Giles, but she hadn't considered this. Poor Julia. It seemed unreal. Giles wasn't the type, or so she'd believed.

"How did you find out?" It didn't matter, but Edith had had to say something.

"Oh, real Peg's Paper stuff—I went through his pockets." Her voice was bitter, with an undertone of cynicism that didn't fool Edith.

"Have you talked to him about it?" Edith saw Julia nod, a slight nod and then tears came from nowhere.

She got a handkerchief from her handbag and apologised. "I'm really sorry, Edie. Goodness me, if a member of the staff came in and sees me, I'll be thrown out."

"No one's going to see you or throw you out. Oh, Julia, I'm so sorry." Sorry was inadequate.

Edith struggled to keep the anger from her face. She touched Julia's arm. If Alistair had...no, this wasn't about her, this was about Julia. What had got into the man?

"The worst thing, well, I think the worst thing is that he was so matter-of-fact about it. That was the point where I felt I didn't know him. Either he has changed completely, or I never knew him, not really."

Edith was silent. She had this nagging feeling. Archie, Matt, all the men who came back, or a lot of them, seemed so damaged by their experiences they couldn't settle, be happy or at peace or let those around them be in peace. But surely, that wasn't the case. Eventually, she said, "Have you any idea what you are going to do?"

Julia rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes and dragged them upwards. Then she put her hands on her lap and looked at Edith. "That's the thing, Edie? What can I do? My first reaction was to go. Believe me, I've had some wild thoughts over the last few days. I even thought maybe we could go together—go back to London. You know, you said you needed to get away from Yorkshire?"

Edith nodded. A wild surge of excitement surging through her in a heady wave until she forced herself back down to earth. That was not only selfish, but stupid as well. "Could you maybe take Beatrice, I don't know, start somewhere again?" It surprised her that she was encouraging her friend to leave her marriage.

"I tried to get Bea to come to London with me for a few days. I'd planned to stay with Hillary and John, and thought perhaps Bea might be excited at the thought of seeing her cousins and London, but not a hope. Trying to get that child out of her home and away from her pony is like prising a snail from a shell.

"That gave me an idea of just how impossible it would be to take her anywhere, not to mention unfair. And then there are the boys. It's their home, the only home they've ever known and what's more, at the end of the day, it's Giles' home as well, isn't it?"

Edith's chest tightened at the note of misery in her friend's voice. What she said was true but surely, there would be a way.

Julia was talking again—a more brisk note in her voice now. "For now, I have nothing to do, have I? Nowhere to go. But, that doesn't mean I've turned into a doormat. I'm keeping my options open. It might not look as if I have any, but I reckon I must have some. Behind all Giles' bravado, I bet he doesn't want his name dragged through the courts. So, I suppose I'll stay for now—but on my terms. One last chance, perhaps." Her hand went to her hair and then to her mouth and for a second, Edith saw panic behind her friend's calmness. "Can you stand it?" Edith was impressed by Julia's logic and by her resolve. But she had a hard and lonely road ahead of her.

"Again, I don't have a lot of choice. But, when I say on my terms, I mean other things too. I'm not cut out for the country wife, doing the flowers and entertaining. Giles got bored. Well, maybe I'm a bit bored as well. I'll try to do something more constructive than having an affair, to change things."

* * *

Arthur Arbuthnot's reaction surprised his wife. She'd brought a cup of tea to his study, and knelt to stoke the fire.

"Are you all right, my dear?" Arthur looked uneasy; no doubt worried she was going to talk about his drinking.

Dorothea scrubbed at her hands with her handkerchief and looked at Arthur, thinking how shrunken he had become, how living with a person you rarely took the time to look at him properly, as a stranger would. He no longer quite fit the tweed trousers and his jacket hung loose on his shoulders. It seemed cruel to burden him with this, regardless of what had happened in the past. But, she really didn't have a choice.

"Arthur, have you heard about anonymous letters going around Ellbeck?"

"Anonymous letters? What a thing. No, I haven't—we haven't have one, have we?"

There was something in his voice—maybe he wasn't completely surprised. "I'm afraid we have, Arthur, I kept it from you, maybe foolishly, but I suppose I thought least said, soonest mended, that sort of thing. But, it's no longer that simple. The inspector, Inspector Greene, well, when he gave you a lift the other night wanted to know if we'd had one of these letters. I felt duty bound to show it to him, though I refused to go any further, tell him any more about what was in it."

Arthur was looking at her, stricken.

"But, and I could kick myself for this, Arthur, the letter got into Helena's hands. I've been carrying it around with me. God knows why. I should have thrown it in the fire. It was so careless of me, but I think it dropped out of my pocket...Anyway, Helena has read it and is demanding an explanation. We can't blame her, I suppose." She handed the letter to her husband. As he read the contents, his colour changed, faded away, and took on a bluish tinge, especially around his mouth.

Oh, God, what had she done? She shouldn't have shown it to him. "Arthur? Arthur are you all right?" She went to him and attempted to loosen his tie, her own heart racing now. He put his hand on hers to stop her.

"A whiskey, please," he gasped.

She went to the bottle on the sideboard and poured a good measure into a dusty looking glass on the tray alongside the bottle.

He put it to his lips and sipped.

Dorothea watched his face closely, ready to call for assistance. To her huge relief, his colour began to return to normal.

"I'm sorry, my dear. What a burden I am to you. I'm perfectly all right now. It was the shock of it, I suppose. Things that have been buried for years—because that must be what all this is about, wouldn't you say?"

Dorothea nodded. "Definitely. But, we must talk to Helena. She's a grown woman and is entitled to know. Maybe we should have even told her years ago, or, at least when the boys were killed. But, Arthur, what we did, we did for the best of reasons."

He nodded his head. "Yes, you're right, as always, Dorothea, and we'll deal with this together, talk to her together."

Dorothea looked at him, to check that he was looking better. She may have imagined it, but she seemed to see a new strength in him and it gave her a surge of hope. She'd given up relying on Arthur for anything and maybe that had been wrong of her.

* * *

Edith stared at the man in front of her. She needed to be careful here. She had got so much wrong, look where she had ended up. Could she be imagining this?

Don't be stupid. He was real enough. She looked long and hard at the well-defined features, on the rugged side of the handsome, the broad shoulders, the severely cut dark brown hair. She looked at his hands, strong, reddish brown hairs on the backs of his fingers. His hands were resting on his knees, and his legs were spread apart, at complete ease with the world."

"Do you mind if I sit down?" he'd asked as the nurse escorted him into Edith's side ward. She'd shaken her head, speechless, her hand going to her throat.

When the nurse had told her there was a friend to see her, Edith assumed it would be Julia or even Henry. When Matthew Taylor walked into the room, she'd experienced a moment's acute panic, where the walls loomed closer. Cold sweat covered her body.

No. It was bad enough he should see her here, maybe even think it was because she was so heartbroken at his desertion. He was not going to see her out of control. She took a couple of deep breaths and forced her voice out, keeping it low and ordinary. "I'm a bit surprised to see you, Matthew. You made it very clear we wouldn't be seeing each other again." Determination to maintain her dignity was going to get her through this. But, what on earth had possessed him to visit her?

"I'd heard you were in here and thought I should drop in. Is that all right? That I should visit, I mean?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure. That depends on why you are here I suppose. You are the last person I expected to see, though."

He grimaced, as if he had been caught with his hand in the till. "Guilt then, I suppose. I'm very sorry, Edith. I shouldn't have lied to you. Maybe I didn't take it all seriously enough. I let myself get carried away in the moment, as is my wont. It was even in one of my school reports, if I remember right, "Matthew has a tendency to fantasise. This sometimes leads to unfortunate consequences." His laugh was short and uncomfortable.

"So, that's what I was. A fantasy. That's what it all was Matthew? Getting carried away and I'm an unfortunate consequence?"

"I wouldn't say that. But, for God's sake Edith. I didn't intend this. I may be a bit of an idiot, but I'm not a complete cad. I didn't intend to be the cause of you losing your mind."

Overwhelming anger rose in Edith. It was a good, clean honest feeling and she welcomed it. "Matthew, don't flatter yourself. Your behaviour contributed to this, but it didn't cause it. Don't be stupid. We didn't even know each other all that well.

Yes, all right, I believed you. I even thought we might have a future together. I wrote letters, I couldn't believe what I was hearing about you, that my judgement had been so wrong. But, the worse thing, Matthew, was that people thought it was all in my mind, that I was writing these letters out of the blue. Even my own brother didn't believe me, you know?"

"Well, he does now,"

Two pairs of eyes went instantly to the doorway, where Archie stood, his hand still on the door. "Archie," said Edith. Her head was reeling; she hadn't expected him. That he should arrive at this moment, when he'd hardly visited her in the weeks she had been here. "Horton. Oh my God!" said Matt.

"You may well call upon the Lord's name. So, what the hell are you doing here—doesn't exactly tally with what you told me, does it?"

"No, look," he raised both hands in a gesture of something...defeat, supplication? "There's no way I can come out of this looking any less than a bounder of the first order, so I suppose I'd better stop digging myself a deeper hole. Edith, I'm genuinely sorry and I hope maybe in time, you might blame me a bit less."

Archie snorted. "Get out, Taylor, while you still can. If the circumstances were different, if we weren't here in a hospital room, I'd wring your bloody neck."

"Archie, stop, please," said Edith. "There's no point. You see the truth now, that's the main thing. I wasn't imagining it all. It wasn't all in my head."

Matthew Taylor walked quietly out the door.

* * *

She discovered it wasn't possible to remain in disgrace forever, or to disassociate yourself forever. Well, at least for her, it didn't prove possible. In time they even allowed her to work again, and eventually she'd even got her wish and been allowed to work in the sewing room. There were no Phyllis-types in there and life settled down, until most of life outside these walls seemed irrelevant. There were fewer nights now when she was awoken by vivid memories, thinking she was still free and suffering blind panic when she realised she was not.

If someone came up to her in the dormitory and offered her the chance to leave, she didn't think she would take it. No one could hurt her in here, not really, and she didn't have to endeavour and endeavour and still get it all wrong.

But then Dr. Willis came to work in the hospital and started showing concern, and interest in her and her story that no one had shown for years. She heard the nurses sneering and knew what they thought. Here came another new broom that was going to do wonders and prove all the other staff knew nothing. Then he would become disillusioned or the novelty would wear off and they would be left to pick up the pieces.

* * *

Henry Wilkes wished he had a wife. Not a friend, a companion, or a relative to turn to, but someone of his own to come home to. He was normally fairly happy with his celibate state, though not committed to it in the religious sense. He had perhaps written off that part of his life, feeling there were things about his calling, facets of his own character, which made him bachelor material.

But there had been something about the walk in the countryside—the tiredness, the light-hearted fooling about with food—that made his encounter with Prudence Sowerby particularly difficult. While he'd been listening to her story and trying to help her deal with it, he'd been all right, all his energies taken up with her, engrossed in trying to make things better for her. He'd finally driven her back to the shop. He hoped and prayed that she would be able to work things out with her sister.

But then he was back at home and like a bolt, his own need for company and succour hit him, testing him, as much as he had ever been tested and bowling him over with its strength.

Prudence had been ready, more than ready to talk and he'd seen it as a positive sign she had returned to Ellbeck of her own volition.

"I needed to go away for a few days. I went to my friend Mabel in Bath. I got the train back this evening. It didn't seem enough to telephone, somehow. I got a taxicab from the station, but lost my nerve. I talked it all over again and again with Mabel. She was so good to me. But all the same when I set foot back in Yorkshire, all the doubts came back, all the questions about whether I could live the rest of my life with my sister, who had betrayed me."

He sighed, but quietly. This might seem trivial to him and all so long ago, but for the two sisters on the other side of middle-age who'd each had one big romance and that with the same man, who had gone out to India and died, leaving one openly broken-hearted and the other nursing a secret, the story was complicated. But Prudence's version was searing and straightforward, her memories destroyed with an anonymous letter.

Marjorie had denied it, said the writer of the letter had got hold of the wrong end of the stick, that Marjorie's relationship with this man was nothing, was over before he got involved with Prudence even. But the worst thing of the lot, in Prudence's view, which was admittedly extreme, was where the letter writer had got hold of the information. All of this had happened years ago, and Prudence was sure as sure she hadn't breathed a word to anyone. So, as far as she was concerned, someone had and the only possible person who could have done this was Marjorie. But Marjorie, just as adamantly, swore she hadn't. So, Prudence did the only thing she could in the circumstance and had left home.

It had taken a lot of persuading on Henry's part to get her to agree to be driven back to the post office. He had the advantage. She must have wanted to be persuaded, somewhere inside or otherwise, why would she have returned to Ellbeck? He was shameless in the end; evoking any bit of sentiment and manipulation he could, to persuade her.

"Prudence, she's distraught. Whatever did or did not happen all those years ago, why on earth allow this letter writer disturb your lives like this. I should say, destroy your lives. This person knows exactly the strings to pull to upset people. Believe me, Marjorie, you and your sister are not on your own, receiving a letter and being upset.

"No good will come of allowing this thing to fester between you. I'm not saying that you should forget and forgive, overnight, or that you and your sister don't need to talk more, but until you return home, there is no hope of putting things right."

In the end, he'd persuaded her she should return home for tonight at least. He promised he would call in the morning. He had sat in the car as she went to the back door, he could see the two figures through his mirror. After a minute, he'd seen the door open and Prudence go inside.

Letting out a breath of relief and exhaustion, he drove home, scrabbling in the back of his mind to resurrect a conversation he'd had with the retiring rector of the parish when he had first come to Ellbeck. There had been something about a breakdown, but he couldn't be sure if it was even Prudence. Then, there had been so much information to absorb, so many new parishioners to meet he could no longer completely rely on his memory.

But wishes weren't horses, there was no wife waiting at home, and in his heart of hearts he didn't believe that was what life had in store for him. He drew the curtains against the dark and the rain and poured a glass of Bordeaux and then picked up his bible.

Chapter 20

"Stop apologising, Archie. Stop castigating yourself. You didn't believe me, and yes, my affair with Matthew was not in my mind, but it isn't as black and white as that, is it? I'm not even sure if I'd been in your shoes that I'd have believed me. I know I wasn't behaving calmly or rationally. I know that there was a short period when I lost touch with reality."

Archie shook his head. "So would anyone if they were being called a fantasist, if they weren't being believed..."

"Archie, please, I know you're trying to make amends, but there's no point in going to the other extreme. I'm in St. Bride's. You're not the reason I'm in here, neither is Matthew Taylor, though he was a trigger. It's not going to help me to get better to shove all the blame onto you, him, or anyone else. Don't you see? I have to work things out for myself. The doctor, Dr. Uxbridge is good, really good, I think. I need to look at the reasons, inside myself, not at other people, do you see?"

He nodded, and very awkwardly, reached across and patted the back of her hand.

"Anyway, I wasn't expecting you today. Is anything the matter?"

"Actually, there is. Don't look so worried, nothing is wrong, as such. There's something a bit mysterious that you might be able to cast some light on."

"That sounds intriguing,"

"I don't know about intriguing, but it's got aunt Alicia worried. You know her housekeeper, companion, the woman who used to work for Elizabeth Butler?"

Edith nodded. That woman—she knew there was something...

"Well, she had a few days holiday, all arranged, all above board and everything. But she was meant to return yesterday and she hasn't. Aunt Alicia rang me this morning, not worried, exactly, but definitely concerned."

"There could be lots of reasons though, a missed train, all sorts..."

Archie shrugged. "Of course, but with what happened with Mrs. Butler and these letters and Braithwaite taking off, not to mention Prudence Sowerby..."

"Well, I can tell you one thing, Archie, Prudence is back—she came back a couple of nights ago, knocked on the vicarage door as Henry and I were about to have supper together. She looked in a bit of a state, but she isn't missing."

"Well, that's something, I suppose. Josh Braithwaite hasn't resurfaced though. It's very difficult to know whether Mrs. B. is relieved or not. By the way, she's anxious to visit you again. I told her she needs to come soon or you'll beat her to it—be discharged home, I mean."

Edith smiled, but she was preoccupied. There was something about Esther Kirk and Josh Braithwaite disappearing together that was disconcerting, like it rang a bell somewhere in her mind, but it was too vague to refer to it. Maybe if she threw out an innocent comment?

"They worked together at Mrs. Butler's didn't they? Esther Kirk and Joshua Braithwaite I mean?"

"Yes, I suppose they did, but I wouldn't think they had a lot to do with each other. Braithwaite was on the outside looking in, in that house. Did the odd bit of heavy work and driving. I rarely saw him. Esther was a different kettle of fish."

"I see what you mean," said Edith. But, she was far from sure. After all, Archie wasn't there all the time, wasn't privy to what might have gone on in the kitchen, or anywhere else behind the scenes."

"No, that's ridiculous," continued Archie, his mind jumping several steps ahead." "I mean Esther, not being unkind, but well...and our Mrs. Braithwaite is actually quite a looker in her way..."

Edith nodded in agreement, but Archie was being too male in the way he was looking at this, being too simplistic. Attraction was a complex matter. Joshua Braithwaite struck her as the type of man who would need a woman to be in awe of him, admiring, treating him as a hero. Hannah would have long passed that stage.

* * *

"I think if we help you, help you get a job, settle you down right, you would be capable of leaving here, maybe in the not too distant future. How do you feel about that?"

How did she feel about it? There weren't words in her vocabulary to describe how she felt. Terrified? Excited? They were as near as she could come.

Dr. Willis had not proved to be the new broom who got bored. It turned out he believed in what he said—he was probably a man well ahead of his years. He saw something in the place, in some of the patients that struck him as a waste and set about doing something about it.

It was risky. She wondered if he realised how risky. Something could easily go wrong in his endeavours to progress and there would be enough people in this hospital who would jump at it and use it as a reason to prove they knew best, that their way was the right way and locking up and throwing away the key was the answer.

"I'd like that," she said.

* * *

They had a ridiculous argument about whether they should sit or stand.

"Please sit down, Helena, dear. You're not making it any easier."

"Making what easier for heaven's sake, mother, dad? What on earth is all this about? Anyway, I feel like standing."

Dorothea sighed. She could slap the girl. "Your father wants to sit down, so please do this small thing for us."

Helena went to the armchair opposite where her father was standing by the fireplace and sat down.

Thank goodness. She caught a glimpse of something in her daughter's face that gave her pause. Maybe Helena's obtuseness and immaturity was masking something. Maybe she was terrified, as well she might be, because what they were about to tell her was going to change her world as she had always known it.

She and Arthur had agreed she would do the talking, though he had been reluctant to pass the burden to her. She had eventually persuaded him this was the better course.

"We made mistakes when we were young, Helena and maybe that's the reason I worry about you, though I know you cannot live anyone else's life for them."

"Oh, so all this is just going to be another lecture about my style of life and my friends, for goodness' sake, mother." She started to get up.

"It isn't. Stay where you are, please, Helena." She looked across at her husband, who looked back at her and gave her a sad, tiny smile. He's changed. It was if something inside him had wound back several reels and she was looking at the man he had once been. But, there was no time now to wonder at that.

"When daddy and I first married, it was difficult for us in many ways. Your grandparents were still here, reluctant to move, but our hands were still tied as to what we could do. Grandfather was insistent that your father be involved in the running of everything. It was just that they weren't quite ready to step down, either."

Helena shifted in her chair. Dorothea could see her eyes glancing about the room and could tell that she was losing interest—this was all old hat to her, and a sustained ability to concentrate was not Helena's strong suit. She sighed.

"Anyway, it all changed very abruptly when grandfather died quite suddenly. Then we moved in here and grandmother—well you remember where she moved, into the lodge. Your father and I moved in here and for a while, well, let's say, we lived the high life."

Helen's head jerked around and Dorothea saw that she had her full attention now.

She smiled. "Yes, we weren't always the old fogeys you see before you." She stopped smiling. This wasn't funny, and it seemed very important Helena should realise that.

"There were weekend parties, plenty drinking, riding, dancing—all quite hedonistic, looking back on it now. We had no children yet, money wasn't an impediment, and we were young. I suppose we thought we were invincible..."

"Dorothea," her husband looked at her, stricken, obviously finding it a struggle to maintain the agreed silence.

"Arthur, it's all right. I'm fine. We agreed that I would tell the story."

"Helena, I want you to know that both of us behaved badly, irresponsibly. It wasn't just your father. But it was his behaviour that had the most serious consequences."

"Mummy, I'm not sure I want to hear the rest of this"

Helena had reverted to childhood, all signs of the sophisticated woman about town, vanished.

"I'm not going to stop now. Anyway, it wasn't so awful. We had a parlour maid working here at the time—a very good-looking girl. Your father had a short-lived liaison with her and she became pregnant." Dorothea looked at her husband first, whose eyes were cast down and then at Helena who had a hand up to her mouth.

"You could say that all the hedonistic behaviour came back to haunt us with a vengeance. Because when it came right down to it, we weren't that sort of people, who could laugh off these types of consequence and quietly deal with them, hush them up and then carry on as normal. We were in a terrible state I was very hurt, maybe more so, because at that point we hadn't yet had a child of our own. Your father, and he won't mind me speaking for him on this occasion, was guilt-ridden and devastated at the harm he caused to the young woman and the hurt he caused to me. We both learned the hard way that this sort of "fun" has a very heavy price."

"God," said Helena, who looked at her father, with a look more of shock than anger.

"The girl was very upset. There was no chance of her family being of any help. Indeed, it was of the first importance the pregnancy be kept from them. We talked at length with her. By then, I knew. Your father told me.

In the end, we sent the girl to stay with Sarann, your father's old nanny, who'd retired down south. Sarann was a loyal woman, a friend really and she was privy to the whole story."

"I can't believe all this has been kept from me, all this time. What happened to the baby?" Helena was upset, on the verge of tears.

"I'm so sorry darling, for causing you this upset." Arthur wasn't able to desist from interjecting, any longer.

Helena didn't acknowledge his comment beyond giving him a quick glance and then looking back at her mother.

"We kept in touch as much as we could. It all went well, the baby was born, and Sarann and the girl seemed to get along well. The plans were very tentative. All would depend on what the girl wanted to do."

"You keep referring to her as 'the girl' mother. What was her name? Surely she deserves to be called by her name."

"I don't want to say her name, for now, Helena. Please try to be understanding. This is all very difficult; just let me tell you the story in my own way for now."

"All right."

It might not have been said very graciously, but Dorothea realised that this was as much of a concession as she was going to get. "But it didn't continue to go well. We had discussed that maybe the baby's mother could get a job somewhere, not with a friend of ours, but maybe through a connection. She was a good worker. We thought that maybe passing off as a widow with a child..."

"Such hypocrisy, pass it all off, brush it all under the carpet. Sickening." Helena's voice was full of righteous indignation.

Dorothea kept a rein on her temper. What it was to be able to be so judgemental. Though, this was a horrid shock for their daughter and she certainly hadn't had enough time to come to terms with it.

"We did what seemed to be the best. We weren't overwhelmed with alternatives. Those were unforgiving times, Helena. Don't forget that the war swept away a lot of the Victorian attitudes to this sort of situation. Anyway, six weeks after the baby's birth, the girl suffered a severe mental breakdown. Really bad. She attempted to take her own life and Sarann didn't think she was safe alone with the baby. She loved him dearly, but also seemed fixed on the idea that because of their circumstances, the world was going to be particularly hard on them. Not completely a delusion. Bear in mind Sarann was also getting older and was finding it difficult to cope with all of this."

She paused, to try to gather her resources. "One thing played into our hands when we made our next decision. In those days, it wasn't uncommon for a couple to take a long honeymoon—to travel on the continent quite often. Daddy and I had not gone on honeymoon at all because of grandfather's earlier stroke, so no eyebrows were raised when we headed off, starting with a cruise.

In the time we were away, we let it be known that I had given birth. That in fact, it had been quite a surprise to us as well. If anybody thought the baby was a trifle advanced, if was never commented upon. But, I don't think anyone ever did. Luckily, Charles had been quite a tiny baby, three weeks or so premature."

"Charles, our Charles, my brother, Charles? What are you saying? That Charles is not my brother?"

"Calm down, Helena. Becoming hysterical won't change anything. He is your brother. The difference being that I didn't give birth to him. I did come to love him, though. How could I not?"

"But, how on earth did you agree to such a thing, mother, taking dad's..."

"Careful, Helena," Dorothea said. She sighed. "It is all such a long time ago. It is almost difficult to recall all the emotion. There were a lot of tears, a lot of agonising. But, besides all that, there was a baby without a home whose only other option was adoption, and there was a sick woman. Those were the stark choices. It wasn't easy at first. But, it was the right thing to do. And sometimes doing the right thing brings its own reward. In this case, it certainly did. Then a couple of years later, Edward came along then you and, I suppose it all became normal. With the exception that there were no more boisterous weekend parties at the house. We both valued what we had far too much to jeopardise it ever again.

"Mother," Helena's voice was arresting, filled with apprehension.

"Why are you telling me this story now?"

Arthur came to Dorothea's side and took her hand in his.

"Because Charles' mother came back," he said.

Chapter 21

"I'll see you again in a week or so. I'll get my secretary to send you an appointment immediately."

"I can't believe it in a way, that you think I'm ready to go home. But, I suppose all these weekend passes have been leading to this point?"

"Well, yes, but more to the point, I think you are ready. You've talked to your brother and seem surer about returning to your home. You asked my opinion and no, I don't see the necessity for another weekend pass. You're on a small amount of medication, which, in not too much time, we may decide to wean you off."

"I'm really longing to be discharged, Dr. Uxbridge, but I'm terribly anxious too."

"That's natural, Edith. It would be unrealistic if you were not. But, you've told me a couple of things today that I feel augur well for the future. You've had a visit from the man who seems to have triggered this whole episode, and your brother seems to have a better understanding of what happened. Maybe you do, too?"

Edith was still for a moment and then nodded. Things were a bit clearer. She'd still over-reacted to being deceived and rejected, but she hadn't invented the whole thing. She may have lost her grip on reality for a while, but as a result rather than a cause of things going wrong. That made a subtle but significant difference to the way she perceived things.

"I say this lightly, but it's important to say it—if you ever needed to, you could come back. We don't lock people up and throw the key away, well not very often. The trouble can be the longer you say in a place like this—and incidentally, the word 'asylum' has some positive connotations, also, you know—the more frightening the world outside can seem."

Edith knew exactly what he meant and her biggest fear was it would be too frightening, and people would always look at her in a particular way. Well, that was almost a given, but how would it make her feel, and how would she deal with those feelings? In the back of her mind, the possibility of leaving Ellbeck still hovered, a sort of insurance policy.

"I think being able to continue seeing you will help," she said. If she went elsewhere, what were the chances of ever meeting a psychiatrist like him? Maybe that was enough reason, in itself, to stay where she was, for the time being.

* * *

They produced her old suitcase, which they had stored away somewhere for the past almost two decades. The very sight of it made her stomach clench and cramp. For a while, she was afraid she wasn't going to be able to leave after all and she was going to have to turn down this unexpected chance that Dr. Willis was giving her.

It would not come again, she was quite sure of that. There were already rumours Dr. Willis had his sights set on a new post somewhere else—in London, probably, the rumours had it, where he wouldn't be so held back by traditionalists. But, he had taken her up, it seemed, asking her a lot about her earlier life. She could almost see his brain ticking over. Why was she still institutionalised? Couldn't she serve as a good example of how a long-standing mental patient could survive in the world?

"We won't abandon you," he said. They would fix her up with a place to stay and a job—nothing too demanding, with people who would know and understand enough about her background.

But, it came down to the moment—the walking out through the huge gates, away from the only world that had touched her for almost two decades. She told herself she wouldn't look back, but she did glance just once more over her shoulder at the grand entrance and the clock tower of the mental hospital.

* * *

"I don't know what you think you're playing at—you're going...you're staying. You're asking Bea if she wants to go to London, for God's sake!"

Giles had completely wrong-footed her. She was having a cup of tea before waking Bea for school, and didn't even realise Giles was up. This was all so new. Her life had been upturned and she couldn't find a new pattern just like that. She had to feel her way along this new route, like a suddenly blinded person in an unfamiliar corridor.

She'd literally jumped when Giles had come into the kitchen. She'd been so immersed in her thoughts she hadn't heard him come in. "I'm not playing at anything. I've only considered what would happen to Bea if I decide to go away for a while, that's all. But, I...I want to try and keep things as normal as possible for her.

He snorted, an ugly sound.

"Normal. You tell the child you're going to stay in London. You try and drag her with you, away from school, from home, pretending everything is normal, as you put it."

Julia's heart pounded and her stomach roiled with nausea. She would not start arguing. Giles was already showing the unreasonableness she had always known him capable of.

"I'm at a loss here, Giles. You somehow expect me to carry on as normal, but I can't. You have a girlfriend, for God's sake. You've betrayed me, our marriage, destroyed everything."

He laughed, loudly and incongruously. Then there was a moment's silence, long enough for Julia to hear the ticking clock and the sound outside of one of the maids about her duties.

"Listen to yourself. You're talking just like those magazines, the ones the maids read. I've seen you buried in them as well. They're certainly affecting your vocabulary, and probably your judgement as well. You need to grow up a bit, Julia."

She looked at him. Who was he? Who was he really, because she didn't recognise the cold, dismissive voice and expressionless face. Like the stories about changelings. Someone had replaced the warm loving friend with this person. Suddenly she felt sick, truly sick. She stood up and made for the door.

Giles was saying something about her not being allowed to spoil Bea's life. Either stay at home and behave like a proper mother, or go...divorce...custody. She made it to the lavatory and threw up. Shaking and cold, covered in a fine film of sweat, she dashed to the car. What was she going to do? Whatever was she going to do?

She rounded a bend in the narrow Yorkshire dales lane and didn't see anything. It was as if time slowed into a surreal overlay of the present with the question mocking her, bleeding onto the windscreen and written in the dirt on the road.

What I am going to do?

I'm not paying attention.

What am I going to do?

She couldn't focus. She couldn't think, couldn't stop the question replaying over and over again, mocking her.

What am I going to do? I'm going much too fast.

Then she saw a tractor coming towards her and knew it was going to hit her. She braked hard and turned the steering wheel sharply. And in an instant, clearer than the question she couldn't answer...I don't want it to end like this.

She put up her arms, hands over her eyes, and bent her head to the steering wheel.

His voice instantly lowered a few octaves. "Are ye all right, Missus?" It's Mrs. Etherington, isn't it? Eh, lass you gave me such a fright."

"I'm very sorry," she said. "I was upset about something, should never been driving." Julia swallowed hard.

"Yes, don't mind about that now. We need to get you out o' the motor, and motor out of this ditch. It's a hazard on t'road. Are you sure you're all right, Missis, not hurt?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine." She was sure there would be bruises and aches later. But that didn't matter. No, actually it does matter. I could have died. I'm glad beyond words that I didn't. Whatever happens with Giles, with the children, with my life, I'll remember this moment, this thought, and hopefully this sense of gratitude, always, in the back of my mind.

* * *

Inspector Greene's attitude to the Braithwaites had changed. It wasn't that he was aggressive or threatening, but it was very clear that he meant business.

From the way she fussed about getting the kettle on, folding the tea towel precisely, before hanging it over the bar of the range, her mother was getting flustered again. She shooed the dog out of her usual armchair and into the yard, for some unknown reason.

"Sit down, please, Mrs. Braithwaite. We need to talk a bit more about your husband, particularly where he may have gone, and..." he cast a glance at Brown who was, unfortunately, at that exact moment, reaching out his hand for a slice of lardy cake, "...and whether he might have anyone else with him,"

Hannah shook her head, decisively.

"He won't have had anyone with him, Inspector. My husband has a strong idea of being on his own, you see. That saying, "a rolling stone gathers no moss," could have been written for him. He were always a bit like that, but much more so, since the war."

"So, if I tell you that the Kirk woman, Esther, who also worked at Brook House at the same time as your husband had gone AWOL as well, you'd be sure there was no connection?"

Hannah frowned. "I'd say it was ridiculous. I'm not being funny, inspector, especially not in the circumstances, but I think I know Josh well enough to know that Esther isn't the sort of woman he would go for, not at all."

"Even if they were involved in something together?"

"How do you mean involved in something Inspector? And Cathy, I'm really not sure if you should be here listening to this." Hannah had already sent John upstairs.

"Oh, ma, like I keep telling you, I'm sixteen, not a child. What is the point in trying to keep things from me, especially as I already know plenty?"

"Well, I wish you didn't have to know any of it. None of this is the sort of thing you should be mithering about at this stage of your life."

Green obviously thought it time to intervene in this on-going debate between mother and daughter. "Whatever the case, Missus I'm going to have to have a look around. In his stuff and so on. I presume he won't have taken everything with him—not if he took off in short notice, like that. Have you any objection ma'am?"

Hannah shook her head, looking perplexed. "I don't mind, but I doubt you will find anything. Josh is a very tidy man, Inspector. There's his half of the wardrobe in our room and the old chest that he's been using for his bits and pieces. Apart from the shed, that's all. Oh dear." She was upset and searched in her apron pocket for a hankie.

"Don't upset yourself mam, it's just part of their job. It doesn't mean owt," Then Cathy stopped short. The envelope. Should she say anything? The question didn't trouble her long. Whatever her father had done or not done, the police were going to catch up with him and maybe for all their sakes, the sooner that was the better. She rushed in before she could change her mind.

"There was an envelope in the shed, hidden in the middle of those Hessian sacks, you know where I mean, mam?" She looked at her mother but saw only surprise there as Hannah nodded at her question. "Well, I went in there just to fetch some taters...potatoes, I mean and I found a big brown envelope. It was stuffed with something. I'm not sure, but I think it might have been money. The thing is, me dad caught me with the envelope in my hand—I hadn't opened, though I was thinking about it. But, he were angry...told me to give it to him and not to say a word about it."

"When exactly was this?" The inspector asked.

She had been expecting this. "It were a Tuesday, not this week, though, last week."

"You could've said something to me, Cathy."

She looked at her mother and shook her head. "I couldn't. He meant business when he told me not to talk about it. He was dead serious. Besides that..." She hesitated. "Well, it did cross my mind that maybe it might be yours." Cathy looked from one of the policemen to the other and wondered whether her mother and she should be having this conversation in front of them. She reckoned it was too late to start worrying about that now, though.

"Mine! Where on earth did you think I'd get an envelope of money, that's if it even was money?"

"I don't know mam, sorry. I wasn't sure what it was. I thought maybe you were saving up a bit to...I don't know...maybe leave my dad. You did seem to be acting a bit..."She had been going to add strange, but had again been conscious of the presence of the police, and decided that she'd said enough.

Her mother gave a short laugh, that didn't sound amused. "The one thing I'm not going to do, my girl, is leave my own house. That much is for sure. Inspector, Sergeant, if you want to come upstairs with me, you can look through Joshua's stuff. The shed too, not that I think it'll do ye much good, like."

* * *

Being at home, properly back in her own room, her own kitchen, felt extraordinary. The only thing it reminded Edith of was when she stopped war work, hospital work, that mixture of relief, sadness and disorientation—a feeling the all-absorbing world she had been occupying didn't mean anything anymore. Worse of all was the feeling of having no direction. She kept re-hashing Dr. Uxbridge's words, dredging as many of them as possible up from her memory.

"Expect to feel a bit anxious, a bit of panic. Don't try to fight it, look at the feeling, observe it, and put it into its place. Look for a reasonable explanation." So far, she was trying to do that and to keep panic at bay. So far it was working. She had her own little sitting room upstairs she used sporadically, sometimes almost every evening, and then at others, she would spend all her time either in the garden or downstairs chatting with Archie. The occupation of the room had come about by accident.

They had carried out a gradual piecemeal decoration of the house, changing it in quite slow stages from their parents' home. This had actually been a nursery, when she and Archie had been children. Her parents had never got around to changing the childish wallpaper and borders and she and Archie had no idea what to do with it. In the back of her mind, she'd thought that maybe one day, maybe Archie would meet someone. But, she wouldn't have dreamt of saying it. And, it didn't seem to have occurred to him.

"What a state, look at that," he'd said. "Well, this needs transforming for a start. Why don't you do it, Edie? Be a good project for you. It could become a place of your own. Somewhere to keep your treasures, entertain your friends, that sort of thing?"

Edith smiled now, remembering the conversation. What sort of future had they envisaged—sharing this house? Was it meant to be a stopgap? But, until what? Until real life started again, presumably. Well, there was absolutely no point in that—real life what was happening during the waiting time and she needed to remember that.

Chapter 22

The walk the next day had been Julia's suggestion. She'd telephoned last night, sounding subdued, unlike herself. Edith had let her spirits lift at the mention of the walk, not held herself in check as she had been doing of late. She would try to let go, try to live in the moment.

She'd even talked about the police this morning with Archie. She had broached the subject bothering her most since she'd come back home. "Are they still calling round here all the time?"

Archie had shrugged, but she'd seen something more relaxed, less angry in his face. "No, not that they've deigned to tell me, or anything, but I think they've moved their focus away from me. I think they have someone else in their sights and what's more, I have a feeling that it's something to do with the disappearance of that Kirk woman and Braithwaite."

"Surely not." Edith's brain was whirring and all sorts of things were resonating against each other. She kept them to herself for now. She needed to keep what she said as much in check as her thoughts. For a long time in the future—forever, perhaps she was going to have to keep a close guard on her tongue.

* * *

It was a perfect autumn morning, for a walk. The light already had an old gold tint and the changing hues of the falling leaves turned to world to burnished russets, browns, and gold.

They soon got into a rhythm, walking at a fair pace. The going was challenging, over bracken and rough ground. "I'm a bit out of condition. I think I've been letting things slide, feeling sorry for myself, not doing anything about it."

Julia paused and laughed, "You know I think I've just heard myself talk there, and I didn't even move my lips."

Edith heard a trace of gaiety, reminding her of the old Julia. "Didn't we see the funny side of some pretty unfunny things at Tommy's," said Edith.

Julia grimaced. "You had to be there, I suppose. Maybe to anyone else, it would have been rather tasteless, some of the humour. I think nurses always do joke you know, about disgusting things like the sputum, round, or the old chestnut about getting the false teeth mixed up. Did that ever actually happened?"

"Bound to have done," said Edith.

They walked on, matching each other's pace well. "I think you've come to a decision," Edith said quietly.

"I think so. But it's not necessarily the right one. Or even a permanent one. But, I have to jump one way or another, don't I? I have to tell you something. Don't panic. But, I had a near miss in the motor, yesterday, Frightened the life out of myself, and I don't think it did a lot for the nerves of the poor farmer who nearly had the misfortune to mow me down with his tractor."

She heard Edith's sharp inhalation, and saw her shocked expression.

"Don't worry. As you see, I had a lucky escape. But it was a sharp lesson. Life is precious, and so on. Also, I can't go on for very long in my present state of limbo. I've been all over the place, angry, indignant, feeling very sorry for myself."

"You have good reason," Edith said.

"I know. But, the point is I've got to get over that, start taking some rational decisions. And the first one is to try and move on from the shock of what has happened, go away for a break, perhaps, but then go back home.

"What?" Edith couldn't help the exclamation.

"I know," said Julia. "I'm far from sure it's the right decision, and I'm even less sure that our marriage will last. But, don't you see, Edith. If Giles and I do part, I need to be more clever in how I deal with it, not just walk away, giving him the advantage. I shouldn't have to think like this, but look how it would look to an outsider...woman abandons child, husband, and home. As things stand, there's no way Bea would come with me. I don't want to put her in that position anyway. My plan is to try and talk to Giles properly. I've made all sorts of resolutions to remain calm whatever the provocation. If he wants to try again, ditching the lady-friend then I suppose I owe him...us, that one chance."

"You've clearly given it a lot of thought," Edith said. She had serious misgivings, but wasn't going to say so. It wasn't necessary, anyway. Julia was a woman without rose-tinted spectacles anywhere near her. Now she confirmed this.

"I'm prepared to try if he is. But in the back of my mind, and sorry if this sounds cynical, is the thought that if I leave again, it will be properly this time. And that will include getting the advice of a solicitor."

An agitated Aunt Alicia telephoned that afternoon. Julia had left after a cup of tea. The relaxed, happy tiredness of the walk was replaced by the tension in her friend's stance and facial expression.

"Thanks, for listening, chum," she'd said in the hallway, giving Edith an unexpected, quick hug.

"Come and see me again soon." Edith had the most unsettling feeling of dispatching her friend into the lion's den, which she told herself was quite stupid. Julia was going home. It was Giles, her husband, who was presumably waiting there, not some strange ogre. Whatever had happened to the old Giles, something must surely remain of the young eager suitor Edith remembered, begging Julia to wangle some time off from the hospital when he was on leave.

"I wondered if you or Archie could come out to see me? I've had that Inspector Greene and the young sergeant out here. They seemed to stay ages and I'm not at all sure they went away satisfied..."

Edith clicked her tongue. It was too much, upsetting an elderly lady on her own like this. Coming round to question Archie was one thing; Aunt Alicia's involvement with this business was peripheral. Esther Kirk hadn't even been with her for long."

"Hang on, Aunt Alicia. I'll come now. I'll get the motor out and be with you quite soon."

"Don't you think maybe you should bring Archie?"

Edith made a snap decision. Part of getting better was dealing with things by herself. She'd once been a strong and independent woman. She needed to at least try being one again."

"Tell you what, Aunt Alicia. I'll come on my own for now. Archie is out visiting an elderly patient, a man living on his own, needing the company as much as anything. He's usually detained there for quite a while and a glass or two is usually imbibed. I'll stay the night if you like. We'll see."

It felt different driving out to Aunt Alicia's, on her own, no longer looking for refuge, but being the one to bring, hopefully, some comfort. She drove up the short drive that curved sweetly to the front of the house. She had always loved the solidity of this house; four-square and functional, its beauty composed of simplicity, Georgian symmetry, and lack of adornment. It reminded Edith of the county itself, resilient and sound.

Aunt Alicia opened the door and for the first time, that Edith could recall, her aunt looked diminished and old. Edith pushed a myriad worries away for now, but couldn't prevent them rushing into her mind in the first place. It didn't look like Esther Kirk would be coming back, whatever the reason for her disappearance. Her aunt couldn't stay here on her own. What did that mean for her and Archie?"

"Thank you for coming dear, come in."

As they went into the hallway, her aunt looked at Edith more closely. "You're looking well, Edith?"

"Yes, been for a tramp with Julia over the moors, blew away the cobwebs, for both of us, I'd say." Edith looked around her. It may be her imagination, but the room they were in was beginning to take on a slightly neglected air. How long had the Esther woman been away anyway?"

"I'll make us a cup of tea."

"No, Auntie Alicia, let me do it." Alicia put her hand on Edith's arm, and she could feel a slight tremor.

"No, dear, please, let me do it. I've been feeling a bit of a useless old woman lately, so don't make it worse, please."

She smiled to take the sting from her words, but Edith fretted at how she seemed to have aged, as she went slowly to get the tea.

"It isn't that he bullied me, not at all. He's quite an old-fashioned, gentle type of man, you know, Edith, however uncouth he tries to appear." Edith smiled into her cup. "I doubt very much if Archie would agree that view of Inspector Greene, Auntie."

"Well, perhaps. Maybe they did concentrate too much on Archie and I can understand that it doesn't look good for him, having visits from the police. But, one good thing is that they no longer seem in the least concerned about him. They know I'm Archie's aunt, but they barely mentioned him. They wanted to know about Esther though, everything, every detail. To tell the truth dear, I don't even know the woman that well. She hasn't been with me long and apart from that, she is very unforthcoming. I felt a fool. They wanted to know about her friends, about what she did in her time off, whether she mentioned any family. I don't think they understood that I just didn't know. They obviously thought I was being obtuse or just downright difficult."

"Oh, I don't know, Auntie Alicia. I think you are taking it too much to heart. That is the way they question, their method. To hear Archie, they asked him the same things, with maybe a slight variation, time after time—that was what infuriated him, he didn't feel that the questioning was serving any useful purpose at all apart from them letting him know that he wasn't trusted. You know Archie, doesn't suffer that sort of thing...I don't suppose he made things any easier for himself."

Aunt Alicia put her cup down and went to lift the teapot to pour them out another cup. Edith stopped herself from intervening, recognising that it was important for Aunt Alicia to feel in control in her own home.

Actually, it must be quite horrible for her, having a woman who was less than congenial, foisted upon her and then feeling she should have been more observant. It made her angry at the police for making her aunt feel like this and at Henry Wilkes for bringing the woman here in the first place.

"I told them that as far as I knew Esther had gone to Brighton. That's what she told me. A visit to Brighton to an old school friend who kept an antiques shop with her husband, a last bit of sea air before the winter, that's what she said. I had no reason at all to doubt her word. I told the inspector so. I didn't have an address or telephone number for the friend—well, why on earth would I? But somehow, I was made to feel that was somehow remiss of me. They spent an age in her room, took a bag of things away with them. I tried to object, but they just said they would give me a receipt, that it could be important evidence."

Edith decided eventually to stay the night and rang Archie with a brief explanation.

"Bloody officious man," was Archie's comment when she tried to explain to him about Aunt Alicia's visit from the police.

* * *

Giles sat across the table from Julia. Beatrice was in bed. To Julia's relief, she seemed oblivious to what was going on between her parents. Knowing Beatrice, though, she may well be choosing to ignore her mother's comings and goings. For now, though it certainly made things easier. Giles, though, wasn't making things easy for her. He had an impatient look on his face, and a rigid, don't touch me, posture.

Julia was conscious that it was one thing being calm and resolved when walking across the moors with Edie. It was different and an awful lot more difficult when face-to-face with an intractable Giles. A part of her wanted to shout at him that none of this was her fault. This situation was not of her making. But she'd solemnly promised herself that she wasn't going to argue with him. She had heard or read that as soon as you became angry, you've lost the argument, and this was certainly the case when you were dealing with Giles.

"Giles," she said, determined to keep her tone steady. "Something needs to be resolved. Well, you know that."

He said nothing.

Julia wished the beat of her heart would slow, and that this sick feeling would go.

"Help me out, a bit here, Giles. I'm trying to resolve things in some way. But, I can't do it on my own. Do you even want me to stay?"

He shrugged his shoulders "You'll have to please yourself about that."

The man was being impossible. What was he trying to do to her? She struggled to keep her equilibrium. A lot depended on it, so she succeeded for now in fighting down the hurt and rage. "Are you prepared to give up this Amanda? I can't be expected to put up with that, Giles, not that humiliation."

She thought a flicker of compassion, or regret crossed his face. Maybe it was wishful thinking. But there had been at least a flicker on the surface of his composure, and she didn't think it was just at the prospect of losing his lady-friend. For the first time since she came into the house, she felt a flicker of hope.

"I'll talk to her," he said.

Julia suddenly felt very tired, the last few days, the accident and the strain of this conversation...it was all catching up with her. "I'm going to look for something to do, something outside the house, I mean. The children are growing up, the boys away at school. Even Bea doesn't need me so much anymore." She expected objections.

"You're not trained for anything," was all he said.

That's not quite the case. All that nursing experience must count for quite a lot. But she chose not to mention this. "The charitable organisations are always looking for volunteers," she said, not quite sure this was true. But she was freefalling now anyway. She had no idea what had made her come out with the statement she was going to do something outside the home. In fact, it was only as she was saying the words that she realised she meant them, that it had become important to her.

Chapter 23

"I thought you'd gone 'ome, Sergeant."

"I was going, sir, but there's someone here to see you."

Brown's voice was low and urgent. Greene sighed and pushed the paperwork away across the desk, until he had to moderate its movement a bit to stop it falling off the other side. This had better be worth staying on for. He had had a long and fruitless day, and for once he was actually looking forward to getting home, if only for the change of scenery.

"It's Mr. Arbuthnot, sir, says it's important and that he wants to speak to you, in private."

"Not three sheets to the wind, is he?" Greene hoped not, this was the most promising thing he'd heard for a while and it was better than the frustrating search for two fairly unremarkable people, who may have gone anywhere in the country and who may or may not be together. "Wheel him in, Sergeant and then be off with you before I change my mind and keep you here to help me with the report writing."

Brown felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. He was curious as to what the old man might have to say, but he had also earmarked a couple of pints and a few games of darts in the Wheatsheaf Inn, which was in a village seven miles away from his home. He was beginning to see the Inspectors' point about socialising in The Dalesman. He wanted to relax and fit in on his night out, not stick out like a sore thumb."

"Thank you for seeing me and I'm sorry for coming so late in the day. While I'm in the way of apologising, may I also offer my thanks for bringing me home from the local hostelry that night. My wife told me you were very kind. Regretfully, I can't remember a great lot about it. Rest assured it won't happen again."

Greene accepted the apology and passed off the incident as nothing much, but as he cast an eye over Arbuthnot he could see something had changed. Maybe the old duffer was going to swear off the sauce. Stranger things had happened—probably.

"Anyway, that's not the main reason I've come to see you and at a time where I hoped I would not attract too much attention. I don't want to embarrass my wife any further. I want to tell you a story, Inspector, one that has its seeds a long time in the past and one that most definitely doesn't reflect well on me."

Now, Greene was all ears and sat back in his seat opposite the chair he'd offered Arbuthnot. Who would have thought it? Talk about the idle rich. What debauchery and hypocrisy. Still at least some effort had been made to help the girl; she hadn't quite been cast out into the snow in the manner of a Victorian novel.

"My wife got one of those disgusting letters, but you know about that. What you don't know though, Inspector, is that I was approached too, by someone who knew the whole story and demanded money."

"What did you do about that?" Greene asked.

Arbuthnot looked across the desk at him. "I paid," he said.

* * *

Cathy sat on the other side of the kitchen range from her mother. John was still out with some lads from the village, and probably up to no good, his mother had proclaimed. But, she had said it in a light-hearted way, as if she knew in her heart and soul that John wouldn't do anything wrong.

It was incredible they were sitting here peacefully, in the circumstances. There had still been no account of her father and the police were taking his disappearance very seriously. There seemed to be a hint, too that he had taken off with that pale-faced woman, who'd once worked with him at Mrs. Butler's and who now was a companion to the doctor's aunt. Well, that's ludicrous. She loved expressive words like ludicrous. She smiled to herself and at that moment, her mother, who was intent on turning the heel of a grey school sock for John glanced at her.

"What are you smiling to yourself about, Cathy? The last time I looked, you had a long face on you, like the whole world had gone wrong. Then again, that's being young, one extreme to the other, eh?"

It was said kindly and where once Cathy might have jumped down her throat, she didn't now. She also was a bit embarrassed about smiling. Her father was missing and it looked as though he was in trouble with the police. "I shouldn't be smiling, I suppose, what with dad still being missing. But, I was just thinking how stupid it was of the police to think that he might have run off with that Esther woman."

Her mother didn't smile though. "You're probably right and I certainly hope you are, but I think I've got to the age where not much surprises me anymore."

Cathy frowned—surely not.

"I've been meaning to ask you, love. Are things better down in the shop? I'm not gossiping but I suppose I'm bound to be interested, aren't I. Poor old Miss Prudence, taking 'erself off, like that."

This wasn't so easy to answer. "I suppose they are better...sort of. Miss Prudence hasn't been in the shop much, she's in the kitchen a lot, baking, cleaning. Miss Marjorie seems to go back to check on her every five minutes and she's on edge, Miss Marjorie, I mean. She told me today it was like a breath of fresh air having me in the place. And she gave me a book by Wilkie Collins, a nice bound copy, to thank me for helping her on the morning Miss Prudence had gone missing. She was on about bringing you flowers, too. All that is very nice, but in some ways I would prefer it all to go back to normal."

"I know what you mean, lass. Normal is what we all want. I suppose it's getting back to normal too, back at the doctor's. They both look much better. I'm going in a bit later tomorrow. Miss Horton suggested it. I think she's planning to do something in the morning with her friend, Mrs. Etherington. Then she wants me to help her do out the attic. Absolutely full of stuff it is. A big job, but maybe the best medicine for us both right now."

* * *

Edith had a sense she wasn't herself as she drove up the avenue leading to St. Bride's. She had read of an out-of-body experience and this was probably the closest she would come to that. It was good, in some ways. Better than a dry mouthed, palpitating heart, a full panic attack. It was bound to come though, being back in the confines of this place was bound to hit her at some time.

It didn't come though, that rush of panic. As soon as she was sitting at an angle from Dr. Uxbridge, looking at his reassuring face, the opposite happened. Her heart rate slowed and she actually felt safe—imagine, feeling safe within the walls of this place.

"It doesn't feel too bad being back here, albeit not back on the ward. I was dreading it." All her holding back was gone. She found she could talk to Dr. Uxbridge as a wise friend, though she knew that wasn't what he was. He would be looking at her, assessing her reactions, gauging how she was doing, now that she was out there in the world, on her own wobbly feet.

"Not as bad as you feared then, coming back here?"

"No, not at all. I was dreading it. But, for some reason it isn't at all the same, not at all like when I was a patient in here."

"How have you found it, being out, back at home?"

"Actually, I spent last night at my aunt's. She was upset by a visit from the police. They are looking for her companion, who seems to have disappeared in strange circumstances. So, I suppose I was back in the comforting role last night."

"A role you feel comfortable with?"

Edith looked at him, expecting more, but that was clearly all he was going to say. "I think so, yes."

She tried to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. She had a lot of faith in Dr. Uxbridge, but she hoped he wasn't going to write her off as another unfulfilled woman—another of those a newspaper article had referred to as "surplus women." Her hackles rose at the idea.

But, Dr. Uxbridge was asking her to describe what she'd been doing since her discharge. She was relieved to see he was concentrating on today rather than her childhood and all that time that was far better left where it was, in the past.

The war had been her escape. That traitorous thought came from nowhere to intrude on her and she flushed, hot with that horrible intimation of panic, the crawling, hair-on-end feeling in her skin. Her heart pounded loudly and she tried desperately to distract herself and to hide it from the psychiatrist.

Sweat broke out on her top lip as she focused on his narrow, good quality blue tie with the little pattern on it. She deliberately slowed her voice down and focused on the words coming out of her mouth. "Since my brother learned that my relationship with Matthew was not a figment of my imagination, we are getting on better. Dr. Uxbridge looked satisfied and nodded. Thank God, he hadn't noticed the fact she was having an acute attack of nerves, there in front of his eyes.

"I've been walking, spent time with my friend, and started a big clear out with my housekeeper, so it's been very busy, but that's good, isn't it?"

"It is good, yes. But be careful of taking on too much. It happens sometimes, in recovery. Patients feel back to normal and in an effort to put it all behind them, they busy themselves almost too much. Getting back to normal, daily life is good, but, having quiet time, to reflect is also part of that process. Do you understand?"

Edith nodded. She'd stopped taking it all, focused now on what had happened to her. The intruding thought about the war changing her life and not all for the worse, and how it had brought on that horrible panic. If she'd been on her own, she would have sunk her head into her hands and wondered if she was ever truly going to be back to the woman she'd been before all this had happened.

* * *

She felt calm, all sorrow and all passion spent. She didn't regret the years since she had attempted to do away with herself; not even the years being locked away in a mental institution. Only one thing was bothering her and that was the cold. She'd never liked to be cold. That probably came from childhood where the only sympathy you'd get if you complained of being freezing, or about your chilblains was to be told to put on another jumper.

This was different, completely different from that other time. There was no despair, this time. There was a feeling of having come round a full circle from that day all those years ago, back to this point again. This time she wasn't doing it because she couldn't face what was happening in her life. This time she was doing it because it was the right thing to do, the natural conclusion.

This time there was no gnawing pain that made her bend double with the strength of it. Even her grief had subsided and anyway, she would see him again soon. She was sure of that. This time, no hands would pull her out back into the world.

She was ready to leave it and somehow she knew God would understand. This world was no longer the right place for her to be. There were things that had brought her a bit of solace, but they were no longer possible and they would no longer work anyway—she now saw them for the petty, worthless distraction they were. As for the man—well, that had been a pipe dream too. She could smile about that, at how stupid she had been and how little he mattered in the great scheme of things.

There was a sheltered space under a rock, not quite a cave. She put the note into a plastic bag; she laid her shoes and her coat on top and looked around her at the deserted beach. It was well away from the main strip of shingle. Apart from early morning dog-walkers, it was a safe enough bet, at this time of day, at this time of year she would be unobserved. She shut her eyes tight and whispered. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord. My soul to keep..."

She walked steadily into the sea.

Chapter 24

"A body washed up, not far from Brighton—middle-aged to elderly female. Note, coat, and shoes left in a small cove, clear as day, meant to be found. No question, it's the Kirk woman and no question she did it deliberately. Exactly the connection with our business here, and me laddo, Braithwaite, we've yet to find out. While, I'm at it, Arbuthnot, last night....he's being blackmailed over an affair he had years ago which resulted in a son. By the way I hope it isn't the signs of a hangover I'm seeing?"

Oh 'eck this is too much. He'd just come through the door to have all this fired at him, from the boss who was looking chipper, considering the doom and gloom he was imparting. But, that was Greene, all out. Truth to tell, Brown was fighting one of the worst hangovers he'd had for a long time. Curse that Parson's real ale, it had tasted yeasty and full of hops and was slightly warm, slipping down the throat with dangerous ease. He felt as rough as the inside of a tramp's boot, this morning.

"Bacon, sausage and a nice bit of fried bread?" his mother had asked him this morning, just before plonking the plate down before him. In the knowledge it would likely kill or cure him, he'd ploughed through it and it made him feel better, at least for a while, but he was aware it might yet clash badly with last night's ale.

"We're off to Brighton, then. Bring your bucket and spade. We'll collect the doctor. Let him identify the poor old girl as all inquiries about living kin have led us nowhere.

I wonder what Horton will make of that? They hadn't actually gone out of their way to court his friendship and cooperation.

Dr. Horton agreed readily enough and left with them on what was a strained journey, Greene maintaining the same irritating, high spirits, Brown trying to convince himself his hangover was getting better and Archie Horton sunk into a reverie that saw the miles fly by, without him seeming aware of his surroundings.

* * *

Archie was used to death, but there was still something about this particular type of death that threw him as there was something about walking into the morgue not quite sure of the state of the corpse. Drowning was potentially one of the most disfiguring of deaths and so he tried to prepare himself, his mind trying to figure out exactly when the woman was supposed to have come to Brighton. He'd no idea how long she had been in the water.

To his intense relief, it hadn't been long. Maybe someone had seen her go in and the alert had been put out straight away. Her hair was still damp and her colour was pale and grey with a blue tinge, but there was no oedema and not a visible mark on her.

He looked at her properly once the initial spasm of shock—it always came, even if you were sure you had the right person—passed. It looked like her, but at the same time it didn't look like her. How guarded she had always been. Now, that cold, off-putting look was gone and he could see remnants of what once must have been a good-looking woman.

Greene formally identified Esther Kirk. "We'll need to see her medical notes."

Archie Horton stared at Greene as a host of thoughts flashed through his mind. He'd only re-read the notes himself last night when he'd discovered the woman hadn't returned from Brighton and his aunt had had a visit from the police. What he read had fascinated and saddened him and he'd begun to understand why she might have hated him enough to try to damage his practice and his name—particularly his name.

"I thought, or at least the rumour was that she'd run away with Braithwaite," said Archie as they journeyed north. A post-mortem was due to take place, but in the light of the note and what they'd learned about the background of Esther Kirk, the verdict of suicide was almost a foregone conclusion.

"So, you never noticed any form of intimacy between Miss Kirk and Braithwaite on any of your visits to the Butler house."

Archie racked his brains. But, eventually he shook his head. "Absolutely not, Inspector, but I'm not saying that I'm the best person to ask, I saw very little of what went on behind the scenes. I did see quite a bit of Esther Kirk, and once or twice as a patient, just for minor ailments. I gave her instructions too, about Mrs. Butler, about her medicines and so on. She appeared to listen to me, and I suppose she was, a conscientious companion. But, there was never anything personal—no warmth at all, to me at least. I put it down to her general character, but maybe I was wrong. It was more personal than that, wasn't it, according to the note?" Greene seemed to batten his body down into the collar of his coat and opened his bright eyes a bit more. "Note, hmmm, the ramblings of a disturbed mind, perhaps. I wouldn't maybe take it too much to heart, doc."

Archie remained silent. He couldn't agree. The note had been a bit more direct and personal and less rambling than that to his mind. The woman had felt a great wrong had once been done to her, and he couldn't help agreeing with her. To her and how many more women down through the years?

He shivered, feeling the cold that made the inspector hunker into his great coat. This was close to home and he couldn't avoid comparisons. His own sister had been, well maybe, not confined, but sent to a mental hospital, too, when she'd stepped out of line and embarrassed people, most particularly him.

He'd met many poor souls in various states of mental distress in his career, from young men suffering terrible flashbacks because of trench warfare and gas attack, to older patients who seemed to be suffering from dementia of the elderly. But, strangely enough, he hadn't noticed it in the Kirk woman. Or had he ever really looked or listened to her? Had she been just another odd spinster? What sort of a doctor was he? He looked out the window at the darkening countryside. This was no time for self-pity and soul-searching. It was time to get back to Ellbeck and to try to make amends as best he could to his sister and to the others he had been less than sympathetic toward.

Chapter 25

Hannah Braithwaite was a good worker, the type of person, who didn't make heavy weather of whatever task she was doing. She was efficient and sparing, not wasting energy, and usually, not wasting words either. So, for the first hour or so, they had worked quietly together.

Edith had looked around the attic and not only the attic, in a sort of despairing hopelessness, several times since returning home. She was Dr. Uxbridge would have something to say about it. For some reason, clutter, disorder, and junk she'd been able to turn a blind eye to before, bothered her. This was possibly a bit out of proportion, but the best way of dealing with this feeling was to make hay while the sun shone and actually get on with the task of sorting things out.

It wasn't as though the house was particularly untidy. Mrs. Braithwaite saw to that. But so much stuff had been brought with both herself and Archie and just left in cardboard boxes, trunks, and suitcases to be sorted out. It was high time she at least made a start on it and the beauty of having someone else help, was that you didn't keep stopping every five minutes to read old letters and cards or look at photographs.

Archie had left a note, saying that he'd been called away, would be away all day and not to worry, he'd be in touch. She didn't particularly worry, but it was thoughtful of him to leave the note.

It had been a good visit to St Bride's yesterday, if you could ever say such a thing about a place like that. But, some of the associations had weakened for her, just from walking through the corridors as an outpatient. The feeling that the walls held the impression of pain and blighted lives was not so strong. It was true but could you not say the same about many places?

And wasn't the word asylum meant to be a place of safety? Maybe, St Bride's had been that for some people—a better, safer place than the world outside. She'd looked back at the façade of the hospital, at the clock tower and the cricket pitch beyond, imagined the gardens that lay behind the buildings and let go of something. It was a place; that was all. A place she'd needed to be for a time in her life and she had a strong feeling it was a place she would only visit again.

"Would you say the church jumble, Miss Edith?"

Hannah's voice broke into her thoughts and she held up a navy blue dress with white piping. It was in pristine condition, had been stored against the moths and mildew. Edith smiled. That was typical of her mother.

"I think so, don't you? Maybe if we make a pile on top of the cupboard, I can transfer them to my own bedroom and pass the whole lot on to Henry? There's bound to be some form of sale looming."

She cast a glance at Hannah Braithwaite and wondered how she was coping with the fact her husband had left and even worse, with the gossip. She would like to ask, but she couldn't. She'd become particularly sensitive to anything that might be construed as gossip. Perish the thought. Hannah might even think she had deliberately got her up here, working with her so she could quiz her. No, she would say nothing, just carry on as normal.

"You're bound to have heard the talk, Miss Edith?" said Mrs. Braithwaite as if she'd seen right into her mind.

Edith looked at the other woman shook her head and then told herself not to be stupid. "Well, up to a point. I'll try to avoid the talk, having been the main subject of it myself for the past months."

"He would never have gone off with her, you know—that Kirk woman. I said the same to that police inspector. The thing about Joshua is that he does believe in that saying about a rolling stone gathering no moss..."

"I suppose it's just the fact that she didn't come back from where she went for the break and he disappeared and they both worked for Mrs. Butler and people began to put two and two together and made half-a-dozen. But, you know him best."

"I'm not saying that he wouldn't have strung the poor creature along. That would be his style. You might think I'm a terrible woman talking like this, Miss Edith, but if there was to be something in it for Josh then he would play up to the poor soul, make her think her knight in shining armour 'ad come along."

"But, it is difficult to see why. I mean what could she have had that he wanted, or why would he want to get in with her, as it were?"

"He was...is my husband, Miss Horton, but I wouldn't put a lot past him. He were always a rogue, out for the main chance. When I first met him, that were, I suppose it was exciting. That bit of recklessness, completely different from what I was used to. But, my aunt, she didn't like him a bit. She could see what I was too young and stupid to realise. I suppose that were why she took the step of leaving me the cottage, in my own name, like. Manys the time I've thanked God for that. She couldn't have done a better thing for me, could she?"

Edith nodded her agreement. "Do you expect him to come back?"

"No, at least not for a long time. Not 'til dust settles, any road. The police are looking for him. Naturally. They can follow him as far as London, through him being seen on the train, and getting off too. But after that, well...it wouldn't be any trouble at all to Joshua to go missing, disappear into the crowd and he had money. Our Cathy knew about it, a pile of notes he'd stashed away in an envelope, but she didn't dare to tell me after he warned her to keep quiet.

"You don't know where he came by it?"

"No, the first I knew about it was when Cathy said. But, I'd bet my wages it were by nefarious means. If he were leading that poor Kirk woman on at all, mark my words, Miss Horton, money will be at the back of it. She was left money, wasn't she, by poor Mrs. Butler."

"Yes," Edith hesitated, but somehow couldn't help the question slipping out. "Do you think he could have had anything to do with Mrs. Butler's death? I mean the police seem pretty sure it was because of too much medicine, heart medicine. Could they have done it together, do you think?"

There. The question was out and she hoped it didn't sound too prurient. There was a minute when she seriously regretted the question, when there was no response from the other woman.

Then Hannah's eyes met hers.

"I honestly can't say how far he'd go. He's not a violent sort. Well, he were a soldier and all that entailed, I suppose. But, in the ordinary way of things, no, I don't think so. But if he were under enough pressure, desperate like, maybe he would be capable of it. He doesn't seem to think like the rest of us, somehow. It's only since he came back, I've seen it. Maybe it was the war, or maybe it were prison. But he just doesn't seem to have much of a conscience, you might say. I were watching him as he went. Well, it were a shock. But, I watched him, with the kids, Cathy...I mean, John were upstairs...just to see, you know, whether there was any feeling, and either there isn't, or he can hide it very well."
Chapter 26

"Do you realise it's almost one o'clock?"

"No, though I thought it was late. I've had a bit too much to drink too."

"Ease up on yourself, Edith. It doesn't matter. You've had a hell of a time of it and you've had a shock, too, well we all have."

She shook her head and said for what must have been the fiftieth time, "I can't believe it. The poor woman. I know she did bad things, but how do we know what tortures she'd been through—what was in her mind...to walk into the sea, like that..."

She shuddered, and felt, for a moment she would never be able to sleep again, without seeing Esther Kirk's face in front of her, that image of her making that lonely walk down into the sea "It was such a sad, lonely thing to do. If only she had gone to someone..."

"Suicide is always like that, leaves a terrible legacy, too many whys and if onlys. But in a way, Edith, I can't agree with you. Somehow, you see, in her situation, it doesn't necessarily seem the worst thing. The worst thing, by far, would have been if she had been confined again somewhere."

"But, would she have been? Aren't we jumping to conclusions?"

"I honestly don't think so, no. I have re-read her notes, and now the damage is done, as it were, and she is dead, Greene was much more forthcoming. She had a baby and a breakdown, spent many years in a mental hospital. A new psychiatrist came along, got to know her, assessed her again, and she was released."

"The wrong decision, in this case."

Archie shrugged. "She's been managing all right for years, as far as we know. Maybe, she deserved the chance."

"I wonder what tipped her over the edge, started it all up again.

Archie didn't hesitate. "It was something to do with me. I was there spending time, too much time she probably thought, with Mrs. Butler. It brought it all back."

"Archie, this is not making sense, not at all. Why now? And more to the point, why you?"

"Because of dad. Didn't have a lot of time for this sort of thing, did he? He played a big part in the baby being taken away, in her being committed to a mental hospital. I share his name. They tell me I look like him and I am a doctor. It was bound to have stirred up bad memories."

Edith shivered and bent to poke at the fire. She still wasn't a hundred percent convinced of Archie's theory. Something else must have made Esther begin sending letters and poison Elizabeth Butler.

She couldn't stop thinking about Aunt Alicia, now asleep upstairs in the big spare room. She'd been reluctant to come for the night. It had taken some persuading from both her niece and nephew, and had only eventually concurred on the proviso she be driven home in the morning.

"I can't possibly leave my house, Edith, Archie. I don't want to leave. I'll come and stay with you both tonight. This whole business has been a shock. The poor, poor woman, though. But, I'm not nervous of being on my own and I'm not going to start living in fear."

Though Edith could see how adamant her aunt was and had to respect her wishes, this would need to be faced head on at some point. She just couldn't continue living on her own out there. At the very least, she would have to advertise for another housekeeper cum companion, but that wasn't going to be easy, given her most recent experience.

Edith had been surprised at her strength of feeling about staying in her own home. It seemed to put paid to any tentative unvoiced idea, Edith might have entertained about Aunt Alicia moving in with them.

Straight after breakfast, Edith drove her aunt home. She had decided to have a drink with her aunt then call on Julia. Giles would be safely gone to work and she was determined to give at least a fraction of the support Julia needed. Julia had visited St. Bride's several times, not the easiest thing to do, especially as she was fighting her own battles at home. Edith was going to be the best friend she could in this time of need. But, Julia was rushing out the door, literally, her cheeks flushed and looking absolutely lovely in an emerald green costume with a small fur collar and a brown beret parked on the red hair.

"Julia, you look very nice. Are you off somewhere exciting?"

Julia smiled. "Not exactly, no. Mind you the way my life has been lately, maybe meeting with the hospital almoner could be classed as exciting."

"Oh, you are going to go ahead with your volunteering. Good for you, you certainly haven't let the grass grow under your feet.

Julia smiled her old big smile. "You know me, no sooner said, than done. But, look, you came round for a chat. Come with me, in the car. You could even join me! Do hospital work, too. There's an idea. It would be like the old days."

But Edith shook her head. "I can't, not now. Look at the state of me, for one thing. The almoner wouldn't countenance me, looking like this—one step up from gardening clothes. Mrs. Braithwaite and I are planning to continue our big clear out again today. It's doing me good and I can't help thinking it might be taking her mind off her troubles. Well a bit, anyway, though inevitably, it tends to be our main topic of conversation. Archie and I sat into the night last night discussing poor Esther Kirk. You'll have heard?"

Julia nodded, her smile disappearing. "Yes, awful. Poor, wretched woman.

They both looked at each other, soberly. Both started to speak, but Edith gestured for Julia to continue.

"That near—accident I had the other day?"

Edith nodded.

"I can't stop thinking about it. It did jolt me, you know. Edith. For a split second I thought I was a goner, and the foremost thing in my mind was not Giles's betrayal, but wanting to live, wanting to see my children, you, my parents."

"Me too, to some extent, I suppose. No children but, I wanted to get out of St. Bride's and come home. Maybe this clear out will do some good. A new beginning and all that. But, Jules, go. Telephone me and let me know how you get on. I would imagine they'll snatch your hand off, especially looking as well as you do.

Julia grinned and waved as Edith got into her motor.

She and Mrs. Braithwaite had hit their stride now and already the attic looked like a different place. "Would Cathy like these?" Edith indicated a stack of penguin books.

"You couldn't give her anything better, Miss Edith—always has her head stuck in a book, not that I'm complaining. At least it's not boys, make-up and dances, though I'm sure that's all to come."

Chapter 27

Cathy felt guilty at how much better coming home from work was, now that her father and his moods were no longer there, spoiling the atmosphere. Surely, it was wrong to feel like this? I should be worried about him out there with the police after him, no friends, nowhere to call home.

She remembered him telling her to be a good girl and tried and tried to dredge up some emotion. Then, all of a sudden, she did feel sad. Sad it was like this. She knew it shouldn't be. No matter how poor a father he'd been to them, she should feel genuine concern and love for him, and the absence of that was a shame. She wondered about John. He rarely talked about anything like that...feelings, his own in particular. But, she'd heard him grinding his teeth at night and had seen the eczema on the back of his hands.

She put her book down. All she had been doing anyway was reading the same paragraph over and over. It was best to do something constructive.

When she first heard the noise outside, it barely registered. Her mother and John were both due back. In fact, she'd better shift herself and put on the potatoes she had already washed and peeled as soon as she had got in from work. After a minute or two when no one came through the door and into the kitchen, she frowned. There had definitely been a noise and Jem had barked a few times as he usually did when greeting anyone to the cottage. Her chest lurched her heart raced and her mouth become dry. But, the feeling went as quickly as it had come. She was being stupid and must be losing her marbles. She was loathe to acknowledge—the spasm of fear she'd felt when she thought her father must have returned.

She wasn't just going to stand here like a statue, pan of potatoes weighing heavily in her hands. She was just going to act normally, put the taters on for her mother and John and herself, and then have a look around to see what could have set Jem off and caused the noise she wasn't even sure she'd heard.

There it was again. But, not just a vague sound this time. It was a proper knocking now. Well, that would be all right then. It wouldn't be dad. Her mother hadn't asked for his key back, even if she'd felt like it, there hadn't been time, the way he'd taken off. It must be the police, again.

She plonked the pan on the stove and was comforted for a second by the familiar hissing sound as the wet bottom of the saucepan touched the heat. She hesitated just for a second at the door and then lifted the latch and opened it.

A woman stood there, a woman who was smiling and showing quite prominent teeth. She was dressed to the nines, but you could still see that beneath the fitted belted dark coat, she was very slim. She had a small red hat perched on her head and carried a matching handbag.

"You must be Cathy?" The woman had quite a distinctive voice with a posh accent, no trace of the local intonations. She smiled at Cathy.

"I wanted to have a word with your mother or better still, your father, if he happened to be about?"

Cathy shook her head, still holding the door, beginning to feel stupid. The woman was going to think she was a half-wit or something if she didn't say something reasonably intelligent soon. "My father is away and my mother is at work. She works as a housekeeper for the doctor. But, I'm expecting her back at any moment."

"So, would you mind if I waited for your mother, erm..."

"Cathy. Yes, come inside. She should be back any minute."

Cathy hesitated. This looked like the sort of guest her mother would have taken into the parlour. But, that seemed an odd thing to do, especially as her mother was due back any time. Also, though it was daft to think like this, she didn't know the woman from Adam, and if she was in the kitchen, then Cathy could keep an eye on her.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be very nice."

Cathy made them both a cup. She felt uneasy about getting the rest of the meal ready with this woman sitting here. They would probably be behind anyway if she was going to hold her mother up.

Cathy looked more closely at the woman as she handed her the cup and saucer. She did look familiar, but where on earth had she seen her?

"You said that your mother would be back soon, but that your father is away. To be honest, it's him I've come to see. Are you expecting him back soon?"

This was very awkward. She didn't know what her mother would want her to say in the circumstances. She didn't want to be rude and unhelpful, but this woman could turn out to be some sort of official person. Some women even worked as reporters for the newspapers, or so she'd heard. "Well, not really. He's away at the moment. Look, it's best if you talk to my mother—like I say, she'll be back any moment."

"When you say he's away, what do you mean—away where?" The woman's tone was sharp. She got up abruptly and walked across to the window where she could see the garden path.

Cathy swallowed. She wasn't just going to get away with fobbing the woman off. But, why should she be bothered? This woman, whoever she was couldn't browbeat her like this. She didn't want to be rude, but why should she tell her that her dad had taken off, that they had no idea where he had gone? She couldn't just keep saying that her mother was coming back in a minute either. That made her sound like a child.

"Are you sure you are being straight with me, young lady. He's not hiding outside, in the shed, or something?" The woman laughed.

Cathy looked at her. Was she joking? She was still smiling, but Cathy had the feeling she was almost too anxious to see her father. Her heart beat fast. Surely, her father hadn't got another woman, or something. Look at all the time he had spent down south, before. "No, he's not in the shed. I'm not sure where he is, actually."

She took a deep breath. Looking yet again at this woman, taking in her clothes and her age, it was ridiculous what she'd been thinking. She just couldn't imagine her father with this woman. She must stop thinking of her as this woman. "I'm not sure who you are. I probably should know. I do recognise your face, but I can't place you, I'm sorry."

"Really." The woman looked quite animated. She smiled again, her teeth coming just a little over her bottom lip.

"Well now, that is surprising. I would have thought that, as you work for the Misses Sowerby, you'd have a better memory for faces. Then again, I suppose you have a lot of customers coming into the shop. Are they well? Old Miss Marjorie and Miss Prudence, what a pair of old antiques, sweet though, look as if they came all in a piece with the shop don't they?"

Cathy was angry. She didn't like this woman, who hadn't said her name. For all her clothes and posh accent, she didn't have much in the way of manners. "I should know your name," she said.

"Well, Cathy. I should also like to know where your father is. I have very urgent business with him."

"I'm not sure where he is. He left a few days ago. I think he may have gone back down south—maybe looking for work. He used to live down there..."

"Looking for work?" The woman frowned. "That's a very unlikely story, Cathy. He's an odd-job man isn't he, working for the Arbuthnots and round about the place? Your mother works, you tell me. You work, so why would your father need to go away looking for work? Away from this snug little cottage and his happy family."

There was a sneer in her voice, and something was very wrong. Wrong with this whole thing. Who was the woman and what did she want with her father and why on earth did she think Cathy was lying?

"I'll just have a look-see, shall I, in case you might just be mistaken? Telling me little fibs, even? Would that be it, Cathy? Has he told you to lie for him, cover for him if anybody called round to hold him to account for his misdeeds?"

Sickness jolted through Cathy and for a few seconds she thought she was going to have to bolt from the room. "I need some water," she said.

"Get some then, while I have a quick look around..."

Cathy readied herself to run, to run as fast away as possible from this woman and waylay her mother, and John...God, John...he couldn't walk in on this. He would be terrified. Just go. She'd play it really calm and let the woman gain the upper hand. Then, when she went upstairs, Cathy would be through the door.

"On second thought, that would be silly of me, wouldn't it? I'll take you with me."

Cathy looked at the woman, weighing up her size and strength. She was thin and lazy looking. She couldn't make her do anything.

"No, I'm not going with you. This is all completely mad. I don't know who you are. I keep telling you my father has left and my mother will be back soon..."

Her mother should have been home by now. Sweat broke out on her lip and down the back of her spine and she went cold. Had this woman done something to her—to her and John? No, that was crazy, but then again, this whole episode was crazy—she was being ordered around in her own house by a woman she didn't even know.

"I think you're coming with me, Cathy." The woman delved into her shiny big green handbag and drew out a knife. Cathy saw dark blotches in front of her eyes, something that had only happened her once before in her life when she had fainted in school on a hot day.

She couldn't faint. She would just stay calm and cooperate with the woman. Someone would come, something would happen and she would be saved. This couldn't be happening in an ordinary afternoon in Ellbeck.

But it was.

"Come on, Cathy," the woman spoke in a perfectly calm voice as if the two of them were going on a country walk. "You walk ahead of me, there's a good girl. We'll find your father and bring his blackmailing antics to an end, eh? Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to speak to him and I think he's still in this house. I hope you're not lying."

She put a thin bony hand on Cathy's shoulder and turned her round. She was a lot stronger than she looked.

At the bottom of the stairs, Cathy spun round to look at the woman's face. She surprised herself by doing it and as soon as she turned, she regretted her action. It was as though, while one part of her mind was telling her to play along, to try to stay safe, another part, a deep down inside her part was telling her different. Telling her she needed to fight, to get away, and above all to stop her mother and John walking into a trap. That's if they were still...no, she couldn't think like that.

She didn't have a proper plan, not even in the seconds she took to turn, or if she did, it didn't go beyond knocking the woman off balance. She didn't knock her off balance, but she did put her off her stride. The woman let out a small shriek and then a stream of bad words and curses.

It was not sharp. More like the woman had punched her, somewhere in the top part of her stomach. She pressed her hand against her cardigan. She looked down at her fingers. They were red, really red—scarlet. She wasn't pressing any more, either. Her fingers were barely touching her cardigan now.

The woman had gone, or at least she thought she had, because she couldn't hear her. But there was a different sound and came from her own body. It was like the sea, a whooshing sound.

The woman had stabbed her; she knew that now, though it hadn't been sharp. But, the blood...she must have been cut. Then she heard another sound, dripping, like a tap dripping, an annoying, drip, drip noise. She looked down and saw that big drops of blood were falling onto the wooden floor in front of the stairs. She was sort of lying, or slumped on the floor.

She shivered. It was cold and she was lonely. There was no fear, no pain, but she wanted someone there with her. She wanted her mother. She remembered being worried about her mother. Now, she wanted her here.

"Mam," she said, but she couldn't hear her own voice. Something came down over her eyes like the muslin cloth her mother used in jam making. Then, it grew dark.

Chapter 28

"No, leave it, it doesn't matter."

Edith looked with agitation as Mrs. Braithwaite insisted on reaching across to the top of the tall cupboard in the corner of the room. It was what her mother would have referred to as an accident waiting to happen. Hannah had set to, today, with a vengeance, seemingly filled with the energy of ten women.

Edith hadn't meant her to go to this trouble. It was stupid. All she'd said was, "Goodness. Mrs. Braithwaite that suitcase on the wardrobe, I haven't looked in it for years. It was my mother's, she was such a hoarder. I bet it's full of treasures."

Before she could say another word, Hannah had dragged the steps across, but because of an old bedstead in the way, she couldn't get quite near enough to the cupboard and leaned across. A second before she fell, Edith could predict exactly what was going to happen, but she couldn't do anything about it.

She heard a sickening crash as Hannah unbalanced and fell to the floor, jarring her shoulder against the corner of the iron bedstead. "Oh, Mrs. Braithwaite, are you all right? I'm sorry, that's a stupid question." She rushed across to the other woman and knelt.

Hannah Braithwaite's face was blanched of colour and small beads of sweat had formed above her top lip. However, it wasn't her shoulder that seemed to be causing her the most pain, but her ankle, which Edith could see was twisted at an awkward angle.

Carefully, Edith bundled up one of her mother's coats to support Mrs. Braithwaite's body. She wouldn't move her, but would just try and make her at least a little more comfortable. "I think the doctor, Archie is still downstairs. He was talking about doing his prescriptions before setting off on a few early evening calls. Will you be all right for a moment while I get him?"

Mrs. Braithwaite was becoming agitated, trying and failing to get up. "I was to meet John from the bus, I told him...he'll be wondering where I am. I think he's been having a bit of trouble from some lads since his father went...I have to go to him. I'll be all right."

"You can't, Hannah." It was the first time Edith ever called the other woman by her Christian name. "Look, you can try, if you want to but I honestly don't believe you can stand on that ankle. It's swelling up in front of our eyes. I will get something to put on it and fetch Archie. Just hold on for a minute, Mrs. Braithwaite. I bet you're in a lot of pain too. Look, as soon as the doctor is with you, I'll go straight to the village bus stop and take John home. Cathy will be there, at home, won't she?"

Hannah nodded and Edith left the room quickly. The woman was shocked; she shook. It was time to think fast. She could either stay and comfort and reassure Hannah or she could get practical help. She took care going down the stairs though; this was exactly the time when she didn't need to also take a tumble.

"Thank God, you're here. Really, thank God. Mrs. Braithwaite has had a fall, off the steps. I blame myself. I should never have let her near them. Her ankle is swelling. It looks like a bad sprain at least. She also gave her shoulder quite a knock against that old iron bedstead. I think she is in shock too, pale shaking and that. Maybe, take up a blanket, or something, until we can bring her down to the sitting room. The thing is, Archie, she was going to meet young John from the bus and take him home with her. The bus is due in about ten minutes. I have to go. It isn't worth taking the motor. I'll get my coat and just go. I'll take him straight home, his sister's there."

As she was speaking, they were both moving, Archie picking up his bag and a tartan rug from the examining couch, Edith out into the hall to collect her coat from the stand.

"Where's my mam?" John seemed anxious, looking around as if he couldn't believe his mother wasn't somewhere near.

"Now, John, there's absolutely nothing to worry about. But your mother's had a small fall, while she was overreaching. She isn't badly hurt or anything like that, but she twisted her ankle and the doctor is seeing to her. She was most worried about you. So, I said I'd come and meet you and take you home."

"Are you sure? Are you honestly telling me the truth? Are you sure there's nothing worse wrong with her? Can't I go and see her?"

Edith stood in the middle of the pavement, hesitating. The lad was terrified; small wonder, too. His father had disappeared, the police had been at his home, more than once and now, the one lynch-point; his main provider of security was hurt. It wasn't surprising that he was in a state.

She scrabbled about in her head for something to say to the lad on the short walk to his home. To her embarrassment, she found herself relying on asking him how school was going and what he wanted to be when he grew, up. There, she hit, by complete chance, the jackpot and spent the following half mile listening to more information than she could ever absorb, on De Havilland and Zeppelins. John was an avid follower of air travel and wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. Edith hoped, silently, that if he succeeded it would be in the commercial rather than the military section. There had been enough war.

"Miss Horton, look."

The boy's voice was one of hushed amazement, not terror, which was what Edith felt, when she saw the woman come towards them. It took her a few seconds to recognise the dishevelled svelte figure. As she came a little nearer down the lane, Edith recognised Caroline Butler; her hand, her sleeve, and her face were splashed with blood.

Chapter 29

"Is that the boy, young Johnnie?"

The voice was more definitely familiar than the figure, though now, the tone sounded high and excited, rather than laconic. The most worrying thing was what she carried, down by her side. A knife. A blood-stained knife.

"Where's his mother, or more to the point, his father?"

She seems to have forgotten she was holding the knife. Edith didn't know whether that made the situation worse or better. "Mrs. Braithwaite won't be home yet, she's had a small accident. Doctor Horton is seeing to her. That's why I met John from the school bus, to bring him home to his sister." Edith said it deliberately, trying to keep it normal and not betray how sick with worry about Cathy, she was.

"I wouldn't go to the house, if I were you...especially the child."

She laughed then and with sick recognition, Edith saw and heard madness. Forget her own sojourn in St. Bride's. Maybe even Esther Kirk's years of institutionalisation were a result of life circumstances. But, this woman was truly and dangerously mad.

She put her arm around John's shoulder, as casually as she could manage. She had to see what the woman had done to Cathy, but she could not put John at any more risk. Edith fought her down her own demons. She fought the hardest battle she had faced, to keep calm and to think straight.

Don't ask about Cathy. Get the woman to go. Then she could go on to the cottage and face whatever was there. But, maybe delay could mean life or death. Or was Cathy already dead? I can't let myself think that, Edith grappled with her mind, trying to keep her eyes on Caroline Butler and keep John as close to her as she could. It probably was too late for Cathy. Something told her that, something about the flat tone that had replaced the excited voice, when Caroline had referred to her.

She needed to keep John safe. "Do you want to come back to the cottage with us, maybe have a cup of tea?" This was crazy, but maybe by suggesting that, Caroline would do the opposite. Sure enough, she was shaking her head decisively.

"No, I must go...my brother will be waiting for me." She frowned and then looked down at the knife and flung it a few feet away from her, as if to disown it and disassociate herself from whatever it was that she had done.

"You go up to the house," said Caroline, "I'll look after the boy, until his mother gets back. You'd like that, wouldn't you, John?"

Oh, God. So far, John hadn't spoken a word, but she could feel his rigidity against her arm. "I can't leave him, Caroline. His mother would be upset with me. I don't dare let him out of my sight."

"Think I'm stupid?" Caroline spat the words out.

Things had taken a big turn for the worst.

"I'll tell you what," Caroline said, still with that new viciousness in her tone. "We'll all go back to the cottage, wait for one or other of the parents to show up. As she spoke, Caroline edged toward the knife, all the time keeping her eyes on the other pair.

This is my one and only chance. She shouted at John, "Run!" Then she launched herself at the woman. If she could just hold her, somehow...help must come at some point.

The conversation she'd had with Julia on their walk flashed through her brain. She was older and far less fit than the other woman was and this was instantly apparent.

Within seconds, it seemed, she lay on the ground with Caroline straddling her, teeth drawn back and spittle in the corner of her mouth. Edith saw big teeth fasten over her bottom lip and Caroline raised her hand, the hand again holding the knife.

Edith managed to free one arm and drew it up to shield her face.

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John ran, not towards home, but towards other people. Tears streamed down his face. He should have gone to find his sister. He felt as though he would choke, because of the tears and because he was running as fast as he could.

A man's hand stopped him, a big man's hand on his shoulder. "John, what's the matter? Where are they?"

"Outside home...this woman with a knife...a horrible woman...She's hurt my sister."

"John, listen to me. Go into the shop, into the Misses Sowerby's shop. Tell them I said to telephone the police. Tell the police to go to your house. Do exactly as I say, John, now. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded once, and ran on, the sound of his sobs still reaching Archie Horton's ears.

Archie had just about dealt with Hannah Braithwaite, when his aunt Alicia had telephoned.

Mrs. Braithwaite was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, highly embarrassed, but following orders. The tartan rug was now over her legs and she sat up drinking a cup of tea.

"Listen, Aunt Alicia, this isn't the best time. I'm sorry. I've got a patient..."

"No, Archie, you listen to me. I had a strange visit today, a very strange visit from Caroline Butler. Not right, if you ask me, not right at all. Distinctly odd. I want you to warn Mrs. Braithwaite. She was on her way round there, to find Mrs. Braithwaite's husband...I tried to tell her he wasn't there, but..."

Archie didn't even attempt to make an excuse to Hannah Braithwaite. "I need to pop out for a short time," he said. "Please don't move from that sofa, for any reason. It's imperative you keep that ankle entirely still for the next half-hour or so.

Hannah nodded. She looked puzzled, but didn't argue.

Chapter 30

There was a sharp pain in the back of her arm and then a shout. Caroline moved backwards and upwards and Edith got the impression of another person had arrived. Thankfulness made her shut her eyes and utter a few words of prayer. She opened her eyes and saw golden sunlit leaves and a darkening blue sky. She felt a chill in her body and saw red on her arm. The world simplified and stilled down into this one moment.

She lifted her head and heard panting, like a trapped animal. Her brother had steel arms wrapped round the struggling body.

"Take your cardigan off. Wrap it around your arm, tightly. Lift your arm, keep it raised."

Edith struggled to do as he had said. She started to shake, closed her eyes tightly for a second. The elation was gone, replaced by panic. She gave way to the shaking.

Don't be stupid, she told herself. He's a man. He is strong. He won't let her go. Help will have to come soon. "Cathy," she said.

"I know," Archie replied. "The police will be here, soon."

The sound of the woman, Caroline, shrieking laughter rent the countryside like an obscenity.

"Be quiet," Archie told her.

There was no sound, just a strange waiting period and time that stretched and went by achingly slowly. Then it flew when they heard the sounds of help coming. Caroline Butler was put in handcuffs. She slumped dramatically against the sergeant.

Hysterical, thought Edith. Rage and contempt were an explosion trying to force themselves from her mouth, no matter how stupid it was to feel either of those emotions. If the woman was mad, what was the point? "I'm coming too," she said.

Archie opened his mouth to argue.

"No, don't tell me what to do. I'm coming." She knew that the only advantage she had at this second was that they didn't have time to argue. Inspector Greene clearly wanted Archie with him, and where they were going, Edith was also going.

Chapter 31

"Oh God." Edith, still clasping her arm, bent double.

It wasn't the sight, even all the blood. It was the dreadful waste of a young life. Mad, or not, if she had Caroline Butler, in front of her this minute, she'd...

Oh, what was the point? She wouldn't do anything. Caroline Butler was in the right place—somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone else, or ruin anyone else's life. Edith had a quick flashback to a young man, a boy, really, his blue eyes clouding over, holding on to her hand, his grip gradually loosening.

Archie and the inspector had gone straight to the girl. Thank God, Hannah and young John were safely out of the way. But someone would need to tell them. The inspector looked grim, grim and beaten, all the stuffing knocked out of him, no bluster left at this moment.

"I can't believe it," Archie raised his voice. "There's a pulse. Edith, come here, quickly. Look, feel here. He showed her the exact spot on the girl's neck.

Edith put her two fingers there and shut her eyes to focus.

"Yes," she said in a low voice, afraid to hope.

Greene jumped up, all dourness vanished, radioing for an ambulance.

"Get blankets, Edith, quickly. We must keep her warm. God knows how long she's been here, there's a lot of blood lost. She may not pull through."

Edith refused to entertain the idea. That would be too much. She pushed away thoughts of the damage severe blood loss could do to the human body. Cathy was alive. While there's life, there hope, she told herself as she ran up the stairs to fetch blankets.

"I'm going with her in the ambulance. Get yourself home, Edith. Then go round to Maybury. That arm probably needs a few stitches. You should have a tetanus injection, too. I'll get any news to you as soon as I possibly can." Archie had taken command, even the inspector seemed to be taking in his words.

The thoughts of the doctor fiddling about with her arm, while Hannah would be going out of her mind with worry, and poor John, though safe with the Sowerby sisters, would be wondering what had happened was insupportable. Edith kept that thought to herself. She would take her chances with her arm, get someone to help her tie a bandage tightly round it and hope for the best. If Archie returned fairly soon from the hospital there would probably be still time to put in a few stitches.

Wondering how soon Archie would be back and what news there would be from the hospital, made her agitated. She looked at the departing ambulance and then around at the mess in the cottage.

The inspector caught her eye.

"I know what you're thinking, Miss Horton. We can't let Hannah come back to this and someone needs to break it to her, about the young lass. We'll go together now. Let me take you home. I'll see to the house, secure it and so on, later. There will be a trial, I suppose, and we still need evidence, even though we have our woman. It would be best if Mrs. Braithwaite and the boy had somewhere else to stay for a day or two."

Edith nodded. "That won't be a problem, Inspector."

"Oh, Miss Horton, I have to go to her...if I hadn't been so stupid and fallen from that set of steps. I should have been at home, been there. It should have been me not her facing that mad woman. I can't believe it...there must be a way of getting me into town. Isn't there that hackney car that Douglas man, Douglas Higgins runs?"

If she would only stop talking for a minute. Edith needed to get her to the hospital, but it would be criminally stupid and probably impossible for her to drive. The police inspector had stayed with them, been amazingly good with the shocked woman, but their limited manpower would be hard stretched as it was, dealing with probably the most traumatic event Ellbeck had witnessed in living memory.

She got up to go to the telephone. She would ring the exchange and find out the number of that man with the hackney cabs. But how stupid. Julia. Within half-a-hour of the telephone call, Julia had been brought up to date with events and had packed Mrs. Braithwaite, complete with a walking stick that had belonged to Edith's father, into her car.

"I'll be thinking of you," Edith put her good arm around the woman's tense shoulders and gave her a quick hug.

There was no way to convey the heartfelt empathy lodged inside Edith since she had seen the girl and thought she was dead. Then there had been that soaring of hope. She went inside and put the kettle on, fetching a couple of aspirin from the cupboard. Her arm was throbbing badly now.

The conversation she'd had with Henry Wilkes about good and evil and about getting the bad side of life out of proportion returned to her. Henry had said that was a symptom of mental distress. What had happened today had been truly bad. She was still here, though she was lucky not to have been killed or, like young Cathy, seriously hurt. She was still here, and despite her throbbing arm and her worry about Cathy and Mrs. Braithwaite, she felt strong, not weak.

Chapter 32

"I feel tired as hell," Edith said, "but at the same time I feel as though I'll never sleep again. My mind is racing far too much."

"You'll sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow, especially if you have another glass of this."

He held up the wine bottle and Edith nodded. They were alone in the house now. Mrs. Braithwaite was staying in a visitors' room in the hospital and John was tucked up in the Sowerby's spare bedroom. The presence of a child in the house and the feeling of doing something useful seemed to energise the pair and pull them out of whatever trough they had sunk into.

"He may as well stay," said Marjorie, when Edith had walked across.

"If you're sure," Edith said, taking in Marjorie's eager nod. "I'll just have a quick word with him, if that's all right. Then I'll leave you to it—I see that he's in safe hands."

Marjorie led her into the kitchen where John was sat at the table in front of a jigsaw, a plate of biscuits by his side and Prudence asking him if he wanted another cup of cocoa.

His expression changed when he saw her. His appearance of enjoying the two women playing mother hen was only superficial. His thoughts were with his mother and sister.

"Cathy is in the hospital. Hopefully, in the end, she got help in time. But, she's very poorly, John. So, your mam is staying overnight. I told her I would make sure you are all right, and I can see that you are."

John nodded. "They are being very kind to me. I'll be fine here, but Cathy—I want her to get better. Please tell me that she'll get better."

Edith had seen the look exchanged between the sisters when John said how well he was being looked after. He was in the best possible hands, here. She wished she could take the frightened look away from him and was tempted to make the possible recovery sound like a definite. But, she couldn't—not quite.

"The bleeding has stopped and she is holding her own, John. The hospital people know what they're doing. They are replacing the fluids she has lost and she is young and fit. We must pray and hope for the next twenty-four hours."

John nodded vigorously, his face screwing up as if his concentration alone would make his sister better.

"Damn near exsanguination," Archie said as he'd taken his coat off. "I'll tell you something, Edie. That was one of the nearest things I've ever seen and I include the field of battle in that. I couldn't find a pulse straight away and her breathing must have been so shallow—the whole system shutting down, you see. That's the worry now. The next hours are crucial...to see that the major organs function all right..."

"But, you're hopeful?" Edith wanted to put words in his mouth."

He nodded. "I hope I'm not wrong, but they seemed on top of their game there and she has youth and I hope, good health, on her side. But, your arm. Come down to the surgery with me, and I'll see whether it would benefit from a few stitches."

At the end of a day like this, having four stitches in her arm was neither here nor there, though it was not something she'd experienced before. After the first wince, she steeled herself and told herself it would be soon over. "The poor girl must have been so terrified," she said to Archie, thinking of Cathy as he put a crepe bandage over the dressing.

"Let's hope she lives and gets well enough to tell the tale," Archie said, soberly.

Archie put another shovel of coal on the fire and stoked it up into another spurt of life and heat. Edith looked deep into the orange, violet, and purple flame, allowing it to mesmerise her, calm her. Eventually she lifted her eyes and looked at Archie.

He'd gone to see Inspector Greene after stitching her arm. Greene had said Caroline Butler was calm, was talking a lot, apparently rationally, there were no signs of madness, no signs of hysteria. Her brother had been informed and was genuinely shocked.

"I understand why Esther Kirk wrote the letters, why she tipped back into some form of disturbed behaviour. I can well imagine the unwholesome duo she formed with Joshua Braithwaite. Like you say, there is even a sort of symmetry about the way she died. I see too that Braithwaite is an immoral chancer who is motivated by money, but Caroline Butler? Why on earth? Why kill her stepmother? Surely, it wasn't all just about money?"

"Greene said there was a discrepancy about her visits to her stepmother. She came on another visit, apparently, on her own, without her brother. Saw her opportunity. Her luck ran out when Braithwaite wheedled this out of Esther Kirk. Money, pure and simple. Her passport into the world of moving pictures.

Archie leaned forward in his chair and held his wine glass to the light.

"At least half the ill doing in the world is for money or ownership of land—it all amounts to the same thing. I have no doubt the psychiatrists would say she had some form of megalomania. Whatever label you might put on it, she wanted money. Whether it was the truth or not, apparently she saw that as the only way she was going to achieve her dream.

In the firelight, Edith could see him grin.

"Maybe, she was just a bit more of an egomaniac than some of the others pursuing that particular dream."

"Oh, Archie, don't exaggerate. She's paid, or will pay a heavy price for it. You don't think she'll hang do you?"

"No, she may be coming across as sane for now. But, I think she'll only be able to keep that up for so long. Broadmoor for life would be my guess. Who knows? Maybe she will actually be all right there. Plenty of scope for her dramatic talents."

That didn't sound so likely to Edith, but she was too tired to argue. "Maybe we should just have a toast?" she said.

Archie raised his glass and looked at her.

"To Brigid," she said,

"And Alastair," Archie said. One more," said Edith, "just one more. To the future."

ABOUT NOREEN WAINWRIGHT

Noreen is Irish and now lives in the Staffordshire Moorlands with her husband, a dairy farmer. She works part-time as a mentor at Staffordshire University and the rest of her time is spent writing. Many of her articles and short stories have been published and she has co-written a non-fiction book.

She loves crime fiction, particularly that of the "golden age" and that is what she wants to recreate with Edith Horton's world.

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Get in touch with Noreen

Facebook \- https://www.facebook.com/noreen.wainwright

Blog - http://www.ahomespunyear.blogspot.com

Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Wainwright_Noreen

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Thank you for reading Treated as Murder.

If you liked this story, watch for other releases from Noreen at Tirgearr Publishing.

