“Oh, yes,” says Lily, on much firmer ground here. “A few weeks ago now. My goodness, but he’s grown!”

Michael smiles at her, this time without showing his teeth. It’s a curious smile, and suggests he thinks she’s said something amusing. She’s not altogether certain she hasn’t. Of course he’s grown, it’s what young boys do, isn’t it? She’s never been good at these sorts of conversations. And then a thought occurs to her. It could be him. She sways slightly and feels herself falling sideways.

Michael Denham catches her arm to support her, but she pulls away from him sharply.

“I thought you were going to go over.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m all right now. It’s the heat, I expect.”

“Can I give you a lift somewhere? I’ve got the car just round the corner.”

“No! No, really, it’s very kind of you . . . but I’m only popping into the village.” Then she stops, not wanting to tell him exactly where she’s going.

“Are you sure that’s wise? In this heat.” He waves his briefcase like a fan and smiles again.

“I’m sure I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

“Very well.” He hesitates for a moment, as though he intends to say more. Then he simply says, “You be careful then, won’t you?” And without waiting for an answer he walks away from her.

You be careful. She wonders what he meant by that and why it sounded much more like a threat than concern.

I know what you did.

Lily hurries on into the village. She has to queue in the butcher’s. She stands behind a fat man she doesn’t recognize. There are far too many people in the village lately that she doesn’t recognize. And yet, unusually, it isn’t the strangers anymore that cause Lily anxiety. It’s the people who know her. For only someone who knows her could have sent the letters. As horrifying as that thought is, she has to accept it. Ahead of the fat man is the woman she calls Mrs. Mink. She is wearing her trademark hat and stole, despite the weather. And in front of Mrs. Mink there are two women Lily recognizes too well.

“Went up like a rocket,” Carol Braithwaite is saying. She is a good twenty years or so younger than Lily but has a hard, weather-beaten face. Lily always thinks this is odd for a woman who has spent so much of her life indoors.

“Right shame,” replies the woman standing with her. She’s much younger than Carol and wears a headscarf with a paisley pattern. Lily can’t remember her name but thinks she’s related to Carol in some way. A niece, or a daughter-in-law or something. Yes, perhaps a daughter-in-law. Carol has a lot of sons if she remembers rightly. Some of them from the same husband.

Neither of the women notice her arrival since her entrance coincided with another customer leaving, meaning the bell on the door rang only once and failed to draw their attention.