Their walk took them first to the Post Office where Philomena made an effort to establish the story of a fictional uncle in Bristol. “Has a letter been delivered for me?” she enquired, writing her name on a piece of paper.

Lord Thatcham had commanded that she provide a letter to this mythical uncle. In order to support the story of her flight to Bristol, she had felt compelled to comply. Despite a few moments hesitation and some scratching of the head, she had relished the challenge of writing to a non-existent relative, taking care to avoid any hint that the whole letter was a farrago of nonsense, in case it should fall into the wrong hands.

The direction of the note had given her cause to think hard, for she had no idea of the names of streets in Bristol. In the end, she had crossed her fingers and directed the letter to Number 6 Baker Street. Surely, every city must have a street where bakers sold bread. James, the footman, under instruction from Lord Thatcham, had taken the letter for franking and dispatch. Philomena maintained the pretence of eagerly awaited a reply and spent some time discussing the tardy arrival of the post with the postmistress.

This was a dumpy little woman with a bun of white hair tied tightly at the back of her neck. John decided to spend the morning “helping” her. The kind soul dealt patiently with an endless stream of childish questions.

“What’s that for?” John pointed to the brass scales.

“I weigh the letters to see how much they cost to post,” the postmistress replied.

“How does it work? Can I do it?” While John fiddled happily with the weights, he kept up a running stream of commentary. “This one is only little, this one is big. I can put this letter on and this one and this one and then it all falls down.”

The postmistress was enchanted. She leaned comfortably against the wooden counter to relish in full the chance to talk to the newest occupant of the Hall. “I hear you were one of those poor souls that fell out of the train. It’s all in this newspaper, here.”

Philomena spread out a copy of The Times, wrinkled with use. Frightful Accident, it said, on Great Western Railway. Philomena shivered. She took the paper and scanned it. Several people had died. A knot of anxiety tied itself in her stomach. The accident in all its noise and terror haunted her, the memory returning several times a day, complete with flashes of light and the acrid smell of smoke whenever she closed her eyes.

Which of the labourers who had sat near to her in the wagon had died? She felt sick. She pressed sticky palms, damp with sweat, against the counter and willed her breathing to return to normal.