‘I’ll have to answer it, Mom,’ Lizzie hissed frantically, going to the door. As she opened it the sound of the rain grew louder and Margaret saw two figures in black rain-capes.

‘Yes?’ Lizzie said faintly. She looked such a poor, defenceless thing, Margaret thought, her heart going out to her.

‘We’ll have to come in, miss,’ a voice said. ‘Is this the house of a Mrs Wilfred Poole?’

‘Oh!’ Mary cried, pulling her shawl tightly round her shoulders. ‘Yes – Wilfred Poole’s my ’usband. What is it? What’s happened to ’im?’

Margaret felt a cold sense of dread course through her. She knew this was what Mary feared, every day.

The two bobbies entered, rain dripping from helmets and capes, seeming to take up most of the room.

‘What is it?’ Aunt Hatt said. She looked quite imposing, standing there in her hat and coat.

‘Are you Mrs Poole?’ one of the men asked, apparently confused. He had a thin little moustache. The other was more portly, with a round face. Margaret saw them glancing about the dimly lit room. It did not sound as if they were after Den, but he was still squirrelled away somewhere out of sight.

‘No, I am,’ Mary Poole said faintly, her eyes full of fear.

‘I’m afraid we ’ave some bad news for you, ma’am,’ the chubbier of the two said. ‘You’d best prepare yourself.’

‘Oh-h! What is it?’ Mary brought her hands up to her face.

‘Here, my dear – sit down.’ Aunt Hatt, her eyes full of concern, brought up a chair and helped Mary on to it.

‘Yesterday afternoon, a man was brought out of the cut at Farmer’s Bridge . . .’

As he said it, Mary Poole let out a moan and started to rock back and forth. Lizzie gave a stifled cry and Annie went and put her arm about Lizzie’s shoulders. Margaret reached out to touch Ivy’s head as she was now standing close to her, wondering if the child understood what was happening.

‘No!’ Mary Poole cried, leaping up again. ‘No – don’t say it . . . Don’t say any more!’

‘Oh, dear Lord,’ Aunt Hatt breathed.

‘We have reason to believe . . .’ the policeman ploughed on, obliged to force the words out.

‘No – no, it can’t be!’ Mary cried. ‘It’s not Wilf! Why would you say it’s my Wilf?’

‘We have reason to believe that the deceased is Mr Wilfred Poole,’ the voice said inexorably.

‘Mrs Poole . . .’ The one with the moustache tried to get through to her. ‘Your husband was known to the force. He’s been picked up more than once in Birmingham for vagrancy . . . I’m afraid there can be no doubt as to his identity.’

There was an appalling moment in which the only sounds were the rain and Mary Poole’s broken cries.