As she made her way out of the willow grove she wondered for the first time about the identity of the being who had reduced Colonel Cartarette to the status of a broken waxwork. A twig snapped. ‘Suppose,’ she thought, ‘he’s still about! Help, what a notion!’ And as she hurried back along the path to Bottom Bridge she tried not to think of the dense shadows and dark hollows that lay about her. Up on Watt’s Hill the three houses – Jacob’s Cottage, Uplands and Hammer – all had lighted windows and drawn blinds. They looked very far off to Nurse Kettle.

She crossed Bottom Bridge and climbed the zigzag path that skirted the golf course coming finally to the Nunspardon home spinney. Only now did she remember that her flashlamp was in her bag. She got it out and found that she was breathless. Too quick up the hill,’ she thought. ‘Keep your shirt on, Kettle.’ River Path proper ran past the spinney to the main road but a by-path led up through the trees into the grounds of Nunspardon. This she took and presently came out into the open gardens with the impressive Georgian façade straight ahead of her.

The footman who answered the front-door bell was well enough known to her. ‘Yes, it’s me again, William,’ she said. ‘Is the Doctor at home?’

‘He came in about an hour ago, miss.’

‘I want to see him. It’s urgent.’

‘The family’s in the library, miss. I’ll ascertain …’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Nurse Kettle. ‘Or, yes. Ascertain if you like, but I’ll be hard on your heels. Ask him if he’ll come out here and speak to me.’

He looked dubiously at her, but something in her face must have impressed him. He crossed the great hall and opened the library door. He left it open and Nurse Kettle heard him say: ‘Miss Kettle, to see Dr Lacklander, my lady.’

‘Me?’ said Mark’s voice. ‘Oh Lord! All right, I’ll come.’

‘Bring her in here,’ Lady Lacklander’s voice commanded. ‘Talk to her in here, Mark, I want to see Kettle.’ Hearing this, Nurse Kettle, without waiting to be summoned, walked quickly into the library. The three Lack-landers had turned in their chairs. George and Mark got up. Mark looked sharply at her and came quickly towards her. Lady Lacklander said: ‘Kettle! What’s happened to you!’

Nurse Kettle said: ‘Good evening, Lady Lacklander. Good evening, Sir George.’ She put her hands behind her back and looked full at Mark. ‘May I speak to you, sir?’ she said. ‘There’s been an accident.’

‘All right, Nurse,’ Mark said. ‘To whom?’

‘To Colonel Cartarette, sir.’

The expression of inquiry seemed to freeze on their faces. It was as if they retired behind newly-assumed masks.

‘What sort of accident?’ Mark said.

He stood between Nurse Kettle and his grandmother and father. She shaped the word ‘killed’ with her lips and tongue.