Briony answered for her mother, her voice low. ‘My father will go anywhere there’s a drink. He’d been drinking all day yesterday and came home like the devil was in him.’

She had guessed the policeman was Temperance and embroidered her story with that in mind.

‘Without a drink he’s the most mild-mannered man in the world, but with it ...’ She rolled her lovely green eyes. ‘He’s like a demon.’

The policeman nodded his head sagely.

‘So he could be anywhere then?’

Molly and Briony nodded vigorously.

‘Once he didn’t come home for a week, and then he couldn’t remember where he’d been!’

‘That sounds a familiar story, ladies, if you don’t mind me remarking. Well, we’ve got his description and if he turns up we’ll let you know. How many children did you say you’ve got, Mrs Cavanagh?’

‘Five, sir. Five girls.’

‘Well, you get home to them, and if we hear anything, we’ll be in touch.’

It was three days after Christmas that Briony went with her mother to identify her father. He had been found by a man walking the shoreline looking for driftwood. His boots were gone as was his jacket and Molly and Briony were told that he had probably been set upon by thugs and robbed. He was to be given a funeral courtesy of the parish and Briony and her mother hoped that that would be the last of that.

Molly hurried home to tell Abel the good news and Briony made her way back to Barking with a dragging feeling inside her. Since her show the month before she had been expecting a period, and when none had come she had felt euphoric, though her breasts were still sore and tender. On this particular day she was expecting Henry at five-thirty and as he had lately taken her straight upstairs she was not expecting a long evening.

She was to be proved wrong, however.

While Briony had been identifying her father, Henry Dumas had been dealing with a crisis of his own. After taking a light tea with his wife, he had got up as usual to get his hat and coat. He always made a point of being very civil and kind to his wife whom he saw as an ornament rather than anything else. Today however, as he had stood up to leave her as usual, Isabel put her hand on his arm.

‘I don’t want you to go tonight, Henry. I think we should talk.’

He had looked down at her and frowned. But he had resumed his seat, and that in itself gave Isabel courage.

‘I know this is a delicate subject, Henry, and believe me when I say I don’t like discussing it any more than you do, but I feel we must get this thing sorted out. I want a child, Henry, I want a child desperately.’