‘John Mortimore,’ he answered, and Helen looked at him as if he was a stranger. ‘Viscount Darcy.’

‘Thank you, sir. Um, my lord.’

The statements, pitifully brief, took only a few moments to collect. Tom and Helen gave theirs. Gerry, by the merest coincidence, had been outside smoking a last cigarette and had seen them coming over. He had nothing else to add.

It was all over. The police bent to the poles of the stretcher.

‘Do you have to take him away?’ Darcy asked.

‘I am afraid so, my lord.’

‘Will you let me have two minutes with him?’ His voice never wavered.

They crowded clumsily away into Rose’s kitchen. Rose was still hunched in her chair, and she looked up through swollen eyes at the averted faces of the police. Chloe was crying, black smudges of mascara under her eyes, but Pansy’s white face was dry and hard. She simply twisted a shred of handkerchief between her fingers, to and fro, like a snake.

Tom was there too, across the room, but Helen couldn’t look at him. An awful realisation was coming to her.

Darcy came back.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Take him now, if you’re ready, officer.’

They went out and between them they lifted the poles of the stretcher. The awkward procession bumped out into the grey light. From the hallway the women heard them slipping and sliding on the narrow stone steps, and the little grunts of effort as they carried Oliver’s body away. Then the ambulance doors slammed on him, and he was gone.

Darcy slowly retraced his steps into the house. He came straight to Helen, put his arms around her and kissed her hair.

‘I’m sorry to have to leave you,’ he said. ‘But I must go straight to Montcalm. You understand, don’t you?’ She nodded mutely. ‘Try to sleep a little,’ he said gently.

One by one the others went away. Helen thought that she was alone with Tom at last in the bleak, empty hall. Then she looked up and saw Gerry. He half smiled, bitter with grief, and once again there was the cruel flash of his resemblance to Oliver.

‘He often said that he didn’t want to end up like me. He won’t now, will he?’ He shrugged his shoulders and then walked away.

They were left to themselves.

Tom was still shaking, long uncontrollable shivers that set his teeth chattering. Slowly Helen went to him and took his hands in hers.

‘You must get dry.’ The inadequacy made her wonder how she could ever again say anything to fill the silence between them.

She might not have spoken at all.

Tom said, ‘I shouldn’t have let him go. It’s my fault.’ The words came out as if they had been circling inside his head for hours. Helen’s hands tightened on his.

‘You can’t blame yourself.’