James’s mother jumped to her feet with a little cry. ‘He’s all right? He’s really all right?’

‘Perfectly, as far as we can tell. The stomach contents are being analysed. We’ll keep him in for tonight, though, just to be on the safe side.’

The Fyfield family all sat up to wait for Mirabel. They were going to wait up, no matter what time she came, even if she didn’t come till two in the morning. A note, put into the letter box of Sindon Lodge, warned her what had happened and told her to phone the hospital.

James was bracing himself for a scene. On the way back from the hospital his mother had told him he must be prepared for Mirabel to say some very unpleasant things to him. Women who would foist their children on to anyone and often seemed indifferent to them were usually most likely to become hysterical when those children were in danger. It was guilt, she supposed. But James thought that if Mirabel raved she had a right to, for although Oliver had not died and would not, he might easily have done. He was only alive because they had been very quick about getting that deadly stuff out of him. Mirabel wouldn’t be able to phone Ewes Hall Farm, for the phone was still out of order. They all had coffee at about ten and James’s father, who had gone all over his room to make sure there were no more killing bottles and had given James a stern but just lecture on responsibility, poured himself a large whisky.

The yellow Volvo came up the drive at twenty to twelve. James sat tight and kept calm the way he had resolved to do while his father went to answer the door. He waited to hear a shriek or a sob. Rosamund had put her fingers in her ears.

The front door closed and there were footsteps. Mirabel walked in, smiling. She had a big diamond on the third finger of her left hand. James’s mother got up and went to her, holding out her hands, looking into Mirabel’s face.

‘You found our note? Of course you must have. Mirabel, I hardly know what to say to you . . .’

Before Mirabel could say anything James’s father came in with the man she was going to marry, a big teddy bear of a man with a handlebar moustache. James found himself shaking hands. It was all very different from what he had expected. And Mirabel was all smiles, vague and happy, showing off her engagement ring on her thin little hand.

‘What did they say when you phoned the hospital?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You didn’t phone? But surely you . . .?’

‘I knew he was all right, Elizabeth. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself telling them he’d drunk half a pint of coloured water, did I?’

James stared at her. And suddenly her gaiety fell from her as she realized what she had said. Her hand went up to cover her mouth and a dark flush mottled her face. She stepped back and took Gilbert Coleridge’s arm.