And she has been thinking about it, even more so since her meeting with Joe Wentworth. She’s confident now he’s not behind the letters. His reaction was too strong. He had seemed surprised she would even want to talk to him. He obviously knows something, but the thought of going anywhere near that man again has her breaking out in a sweat. So it must be someone else. And not a stranger, either; it must be someone they know. Most of the people they know will be on that coach. Perhaps somebody will say something to give themselves away. If not, then they might return to find another letter. She will need to make an excuse to Edna so that she, Lily, is the first into the house. Then, if there is a letter, she can hide it quickly before Edna notices.

And another thought occurs to her. If there is a letter, then it won’t have been delivered by anyone who was on the coach. At worst she will have narrowed her list of suspects.

“The Whitby outing? The coach leaves at eight. I know it’s a long day, but I thought it might be nice to—”

“I thought we agreed we were better off staying home.”

No, thinks Lily, you agreed. There’s always someone making decisions for her. Edna, or her mother. When does she get to decide something for herself? “I thought it might be nice, that’s all. A bit of sea air will be good for both of us.”

“I don’t think so, Lillian, do you? I don’t think that would be very sensible, given the circumstances.”

“Oh, bugger sensible!” What circumstances?

Lily hasn’t seen that look on Edna’s face very often. Nothing much takes her by surprise. The last time she saw it was probably when it was directed at Oscar after a particularly cheeky bit of naughtiness, and even then it would only have been mock horror; this face is genuinely shocked. But the look fades, replaced with the more usual steely determination.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Lillian?”

Lily looks down at the floor. “No . . . I mean . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

Edna turns back to the screen. “I thought there might be.” She adjusts herself in the chair, wriggling her toes in her moccasins. It’s an odd movement given the conversation they are having, almost playful in intent, her feet flopping back and forth like windscreen wipers. In moccasins! That she last saw propped up on the Cavalier footstool.

Edna must see the realization in Lily’s eyes, because she suddenly lets loose with a devastating smile. She reaches into her cardigan and pulls out the crumpled letter. “How long has this been going on?”

Lily can’t speak.

“Well?” A pause for effect, then, “Lillian Josephine Bainbridge, I asked you a question! Clearly this isn’t the first, so how many have there been?”