Betsy tutted. ‘But you said you had something to show us. Honestly, gentlemen. I could have been making some strawberry jam by now instead of wasting time in this black hole of Calcutta.’

Marjorie rolled her eyes. ‘No way. Absolutely no way. Not jam.’

Betsy drew herself up in her chair, her spine ramrod straight. ‘I have been making jam from my own strawberries since—’

‘Since you could read the tiny numbers on your jam thermometer, yes I know,’ said Marjorie affably. ‘Only now you can’t read them. Why don’t you make a fresh strawberry trifle instead? Something which will leave you with a smile on your face rather than third-degree burns.’

‘Here we go again.’ Betsy set her glass down precariously on a sloping pile of papers and Roger grabbed it before it fell. ‘Clipping my wings. I’d get more freedom in Holloway.’

Marjorie began to chortle, which made Betsy growl with frustration. Both Godfrey and Roger ran fingers uncomfortably around their collars.

‘Without further ado,’ said Roger with false jollity, ‘there’s someone we’d like you to meet.’

‘Who? Where?’ Betsy demanded, glancing at the door.

‘Lottie Allbright has come to, er, visit,’ said Godfrey, beckoning me to come forward.

I’d had two job interviews in my life: one for a Saturday job at the hairdresser’s, which entailed the head stylist handing me a broom and telling me to get on with it; and the other at the crematorium, which involved completing twenty-eight forms in triplicate, two interviews, a personality test and a day’s trial. Nothing had prepared me for this selection process, if indeed it was one. And yet I knew with certainty that this peculiar job, in this beautiful valley in Derbyshire, part of the most unusual team I’d ever come across, was, right now, the perfect move for me.

A surge of energy propelled me out of the shadows and directly in front of Betsy where I imagined her limited eyesight would have a chance of making out my features.

‘Hello; we met yesterday at the doctors’. Pleased to meet you again.’ I held out my hand and she shook it.

‘You’re not Pippa?’ She looked puzzled. Her eyes were watery and she blinked them rapidly as if trying to clear her vision.

‘No. I’m sorry for the confusion.’

‘I thought you smelled different,’ said Betsy with a sniff. ‘Pippa usually smells of wet dog.’

Pippa was someone I couldn’t wait to meet.

‘This is a nice surprise.’ Marjorie’s eyes twinkled and she reached across for my hand, squeezing it in a friendly manner. ‘Very nice.’

‘Well, very nice or not, I’m afraid Butterworth Wines has never catered for visitors, neither do we sell to the public.’

‘Nor to anyone at all presently,’ muttered Roger wryly. ‘Which is something else we need to talk about.’