That night after the evening meal, Samuel went into town, intending to stay at his billet, despite the fact it would mean a very early start the next morning, returning to camp to report for duty. He felt guilty escaping as he was, guilty for exercising the freedom not allowed his men, but he simply had to get away from the camp, which was now seething with an undercurrent of resentment he was powerless to control. He had to escape the presence of Maxwell, too, and the numbing sense of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t bring himself to face Rupert Barrett with the news that, in confronting Chuck Maxwell, he’d only succeeded in shoring up the man’s alibi. Rupert Barrett had been convinced the destruction of Anthony’s book might somehow prove as evidence of foul play, but Maxwell had outsmarted them both.

It was after dark when he pulled the jeep up outside Amelia Sanderson’s house. He let himself in with the key she’d provided, and very quietly made his way down the passage towards the kitchen. The light was on in her quarters, but the rest of the house was in darkness, so he took care not to disturb her in case she’d retired early for the night. He would make himself a cup of tea and retire early himself, he decided, although his head teeming with thoughts as it was, with self-recrimination and guilt and blame, he was sure sleep would be impossible.

But he’d barely finished filling the kettle before she materialised.

‘Hello, Samuel,’ came her voice from the door, ‘I thought I heard you arrive.’

‘Hello, Amelia,’ he said as she entered the kitchen, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you, I tried very hard to be quiet.’

‘You didn’t disturb me at all,’ she replied with a smile, ‘I was reading. Good heavens above,’ she said, joining him at the sink, ‘you look terrible. What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’ He attempted a reassuring smile. ‘Just a bit of pressure out at camp, some recent happenings, nothing that need concern you. Would you like a cup of tea?’

She was not in the least reassured. ‘I’m sure you could do with something a little stronger than tea,’ she said briskly. ‘I have only sherry, I’m afraid, will that do?’

‘That’ll do perfectly, thank you.’

She lifted a near-full bottle from the pantry. ‘It’s for cooking, I’m afraid, so I’m not sure of the quality,’ she said, pouring him a healthy measure in a tumbler.

‘I wouldn’t know a good sherry from a bad one.’

She handed him the glass and they sat opposite each other at the four-seater table.