Christina stood up smartly. "Yes?"

"You can come in now. He's awake, and he's feeling a bit better."

Christina's face cleared as if the sun had come out. She disappeared inside.

Later, when I got back, having left Christina with Hugo and got a taxi, I texted Peter.

“I’m back. Just me down at the cottage. Celia's out. Meet me here?”

He was down in minutes, roaring into the garden on the quad bike. He looked pale and worried as he leaped off. I went out to greet him.

"How is he?"

"He's fine.”

We hugged hard. And then I'm ashamed to say I lied a bit.

“Totally recovered and obviously can't imagine why he did it, but—"

“Mum, Tommy told me everything," he interrupted, standing back. He looked so grown up suddenly. "Literally everything. About the company, about what Dad did, or maybe didn't do. He didn't want me to hear on the grapevine. I know Ted was on to him."

"Right. Yes."

"He said he was going to let Dad tell Christina."

I nodded. "It's happening now."

We went inside. We perched side by side on the sofa together, neither wanting to be even remotely disloyal to his father. Not at this moment. Not when he was lying ill, in a hospital bed. Confessing to his wife. We stared at the slate floor.

"He got in a muddle," I said carefully.

Peter was no fool. "I think it's more like, once he'd set a tiny stone in motion, a tiny, negligent stone, it was really hard to pick it up and stop it getting faster. To stop it rolling on and getting huge and horrific and just too impossible to stop."

I nodded. Imagining Hugo's fear; his panic. "Yes, that's more like it. Not a muddle. More of a runaway train."

“That he was responsible for," he said quietly.

"Yes," I concurred, after only a moment's hesitation, knowing only the truth would do. “But one that Granny," I turned to look at him, "knew about. Possibly persuaded him into. To destroy records, massage figures . .” I looked at him to see how he'd take this.

Peter returned my gaze. He didn't say, "Granny? What would she know?" As if she was some sweet, snowy-haired old lady. He knew. And if we were going for veracity, as quite rightly Tommy was, for full disclosure, then for heaven's sake, Peter should know this.

"It doesn't excuse Dad," I said firmly. “But if you're going to know everything — I want you to know this, too. Have all the facts."

“Mum," he said wearily, “she's my grandmother. I know her. Of course I know her. I've spent weeks down here, every summer. Seen her with Dad. The fact that she's a scheming, manipulative old cow who tells him what to do is not breaking news. She's a witch."