It was in the middle of the afternoon when the young birdwatcher came in to give her the message from Peter. It was a quiet time and Ella had taken Barnaby for a walk in the pushchair to give him a chance to sleep. Sally had watched the door open, turned back to cutting sandwiches to hide her sadness when she did not recognize the arrival, and then looked up again as he approached her. He was short and fat. She had never seen him before.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Sally Johnson?”

She nodded.

“Peter Littleton asked me to give you a message. He would like to talk to you. Could you meet him in the north hide in about an hour?”

Before she could answer or ask any questions the boy left, smiling over his shoulder at her as he shut the door. She had no opportunity to gloat that she had been right, to dream about the meeting, to picture how he would look and what she would say, because Ella came in, loud and real, demanding immediate attention.

It was so cold out there, Ella said. The fog had come in from the sea, quite suddenly. Over the village it was very warm and clear, but across the marsh the weather was raw and damp. She shook the drops of moisture from her dark curls to prove it, and insisted on a hot drink for herself and Barnaby.

Sally felt an irresistible urge to talk about Peter.

“Ella,” she said suddenly, “ do you know Peter Littleton?”

“Of course I do,” Ella answered with possessive pride. “ He was one of my first twitchers. He’s a dear.”

“I used to know him very well,” Sally said. “ Oh Ella, he’s come back from Scotland, and he wants to meet me in about an hour. Do you mind?”

“Now don’t be silly. Of course I don’t mind. Has he been in then? Did I miss him?”

“No, he sent one of the birdwatchers with a message.”

Ella protested at first when Sally wrapped up Barnaby and put him in his pushchair to go with her to see Peter, but Sally was insistent. She said that there was a very good reason why Peter would want to see Barnaby too, and Ella finally seemed to understand. She held the door open for Sally to negotiate the way out of the building, and gave a faint, romantic sigh as she waved them out into the fog.

It was with some surprise, then, that Ella saw George Palmer-Jones and Peter Littleton come into the Windmill thirty minutes later, and it was with some anger that she said to Peter.

“You’ve not left that girl and that baby out there on the marsh in this fog?”

She noticed that he seemed unwell, ill at ease, and as she spoke all the colour drained from his face.

“What do you mean, Ella?” he asked quietly.

“Sally,” she said impatiently. “ You sent a message that you wanted to see her out on the marsh. She took the baby with her.”