‘Well,’ her mother continued. She was emptying the tumble dryer; her mother was never still. She smoothed wrinkles from a checked flannel shirt, folded it and put in in a wicker basket, ready to be ironed. ‘She lived with her sister and a little girl, her daughter, I think. Anyway, the child died in an accident and then not long after that the sister fell down the stairs. Broke her neck, or so they say.’ Her mother shook her head at the tragedy of it all and began to pair thick working socks, pulling one inside the other to form soft woollen balls. ‘She’s been in that house ever since. Never really goes out. Lives there by herself. Apparently there’s a nephew who keeps an eye on her, but I don’t think he lives in town.’

So it was Joan and not Evelyn who had died. Pip felt almost giddy with relief. ‘I gather she was an actress,’ she said, hoping that a simple prompt would elicit more information, but her mother turned the corners of her mouth down.

‘Was she?’ she replied vaguely. ‘I didn’t hear that. All I was told were the tragedies. Poor, poor woman. Losing a child. You never really get ov—’ Her mother stopped, a blush flying across her cheeks like a wildfire. ‘Oh, Pip. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’

But Pip just waved her comment away with her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mum. It’s true. You never do.’

They gave the thought the respect it deserved for a moment or two before moving the conversation on, beyond the death of children.

‘So, what do you think I should do with the diary?’ Pip asked. ‘I can’t believe she meant for it to go to the shop.’

‘Yes,’ her mother agreed. ‘It is odd. From what I’ve heard, the house is a real mess. It doesn’t feel right that she’d suddenly decide to start clearing things out after all this time. Unless she’s died, of course.’

No, thought Pip. She couldn’t be dead. She had only just had it confirmed that it was Joan who had fallen down the stairs. Evelyn couldn’t be snatched away again so soon. Pip wanted to know what had happened to her career, where Scarlet’s father was, why Joan was so horrible to her and how Scarlet died. Then she remembered the woman at the window.

‘I think I saw her,’ she said, ‘looking out at the street.’

Her mother pulled a face at her, making it clear that she didn’t feel standing outside people’s houses and peering in was quite the done thing, but she didn’t say anything.

‘So, what do you think I should do?’ Pip asked again. ‘Shall I take the diary back to her? I think it must be part of a set. It would be a shame if one year got lost.’