I once offered you a job if ever you needed it. I hope you will accept this in lieu. It is an inadequate reward for what you did at El Cerco and for trying to protect the reputation of my husband. It is just for you. Miss Tomsson has been taken care of, as has Mrs Ogilvie.

Please understand that I now want to move on with my life, so I would very much appreciate it if you did not contact me again.

Sincerely,

Jill Salton

The cheque was for £50,000.

I was going to accept it, all right: I needed the money. I was out of a job. The noble Lord Hosmer, of course, was untouchable. He’d returned to the boardroom of Western and Continental and carried on as if nothing had happened. There’s an expectation of entitlement at that level of society, and with the insulation of his seat in the House of Lords and everything which that implied, he could look forward to a long and wealthy retirement. I don’t generally wish people ill, but in his case I’m prepared to make an exception.

His niece was a different matter entirely. I did understand: Jill Salton was retiring behind the barricade of her millions. Besides the traumatic experience of a life-threatening gunshot wound to the abdomen, she had seen all the elements of her privileged existence fall apart around her. Her devoted husband revealed to be a philanderer. Their shared vision for the future of their island home left in tatters by a corrupt political elite. Her own flesh and blood conspiring to destroy everything she held dear. I could see why she wanted to retreat to America.

I put the letter away and said, ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ve signed up for medical school,’ said Leotta. ‘It’s all been arranged.’

‘Is your arm up to it?’

‘It’ll have to be. Term begins in three months.’ She looked down into her coffee cup. ‘But the doctor did say I should rest up until then.’

‘So, three months. Made any plans?’

She shook her head.

I said, ‘The daffodils will just be coming out at the cottage. You’re too late for the snowdrops, I’m afraid.’

When she looked up her eyes were misty.

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘The car’s pointing in the right direction anyway, down the Great West Road.’ I stood up to go and she followed. She was certainly going to make an exotic addition to a Devon village.

The four-ale bar would never be the same again.

AFTERWORD

The first page of Bagley’s letter accompanying his manuscript.

DOMINO ISLAND: A HISTORY