“Mrs. Bainbridge?” Percival called after her, concern in his voice. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, thank you,” she said, steadying herself. “Send Millicent as soon as you can.”

She made it to the top of the stairs unassisted, then stopped, panting, willing herself not to be sick.

She failed. She dashed down the hall to the nearest lav, barely making it in time.

Thank heaven for small favours, she thought when she was done. She rinsed her mouth out thoroughly, ran a cold washcloth over her face, and staggered into the hallway.

Millie, the upstairs maid, was standing there, a robe over her nightgown, holding a tumbler on a silver salver. It fizzed comfortingly.

“Rough night, ma’am?” she said sympathetically.

“Rougher than I thought it would be,” Gwen replied, accepting the tumbler gratefully.

“Still, good to see you out having some fun, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Millie as they walked down the hall to Gwen’s room. “It’s been a long time. I suppose there’s some getting used to it again.”

“There are some things I will never get used to,” said Gwen, drinking the bicarbonate. “Could you ask Prudence to send my breakfast up in the morning? I think I will be lying in tomorrow.”

“Of course, ma’am,” said Millie, taking the empty tumbler from her. “Shall I ask Agnes to keep Master Ronnie quiet and away?”

“Oh no,” said Gwen. “No matter how I am feeling, I will always make time for my darling boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Millie. That will be all. Get yourself some rest.”

“Yes, ma’am. Good night, ma’am. I hope you feel better in the morning.”

Gwen stopped by Ronnie’s room and opened the door quietly. He slept, completely unaware of Mummy’s mad adventures. And she would never tell him, of course.

She stepped inside and sat on the edge of his bed, resisting an impulse to throw herself on him and hold him tight. She restricted herself to stroking his hair, then kissing his cheek softly. He slept on, undisturbed.

She slipped out, closing the door behind her, then went into her room.

She knew of several places in the townhouse where she could secrete the letters and money, but it was late, and she didn’t want to be heard prowling around the premises. Her husband had once shown her where he had loosened a panel in the closet for his secret stashes of whatever things he collected as a child. I tried to hide a frog I had caught in there, he had told her. Didn’t work out so well for the frog. I cried for days, and no one knew why.

She walked into the closet and felt for the loose panel, then removed it and lit it with her torch, the action summoning up the memory of the dead man once again. No glistening eyes stared at her this time, thankfully. No remains of deceased amphibians, either. The space was empty. She put the Hamleys bag containing the letters and the money inside, then replaced the panel and lined up her shoes in front of it.