‘They’re ex-battery hens. When I got them, they had hardly any feathers and Hilda had a horrible limp. That first winter, they all had to wear little woolly jumpers to keep them warm, even in their luxury cottage.’ Henry gestured towards the shed. At that moment, the sound of a train passing somewhere very close startled Billie so much that she almost fell backwards from her squat onto the damp grass.

‘The railway line runs right along the end of the garden. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with this place. I always wanted to be one of the Railway Children.’

Billie jumped up and went to look over the fence. She had to stand on tiptoe, but she could just about make out the train tracks.

‘The music to that film has me in tears every time I hear it,’ she confessed. ‘Do you ever stand here and wave your hanky at the commuters?’

Henry winked at her. ‘All the time!’

Back inside the kitchen, Henry made ‘proper tea’ as he called it, in a teapot. The teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl and cups and saucers were all beautiful shapes and patterns but none of them matched. Billie pointed to the book under the table leg.

‘I hope you’re not intending to cook your “girls”.’

Henry raised his hands in horror. ‘I never eat chicken!’

They returned to the sitting room and settled into the sofa.

‘How are you getting on with Madame Burova?’ Henry asked as he poured the tea.

Billie hesitated slightly before answering. ‘Okay, I think.’

‘You don’t sound very certain.’

Billie shrugged. ‘Imelda’s been lovely. She took me to The Tea Leaf last night and introduced me to some people who might be able to help me.’

‘So why do I feel there’s a “but” coming?’

‘Because I can’t help feeling like a kid with a stick poking a wasps’ nest.’

‘You think you’re going to end up getting stung?’

‘Maybe. But that’s not what’s bothering me. If I get hurt, it’s my own fault. I chose to start poking around. But what if other people get stung too?’

Henry stirred milk into his tea and took a sip.

‘Well, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me what happened the first time you met Madame Burova.’

Billie told him everything, and when she had finished Henry sat in silence for a moment, considering her words before offering his advice.

‘You have a right to know who you are, Billie. Besides, your birth mother started all this with her mysterious legacy of funds and a photograph. All you can do is tread carefully. More tea, vicar?’

Billie passed over her cup and Henry refilled it. ‘That photograph,’ he asked, ‘did you bring it with you?’

‘No. why?’