“Well, they were a very nice couple,” she said on her way upstairs, taking Jean’s grunt for agreement. “It’s a pity we didn’t get to know them at the beginning of the week.”

Once Jean had overseen her mother’s lengthy preparations for bed, from the discreet vantage point of her adjoining room, and satisfied herself that she was settled with her hairnet in place and a Georgette Heyer to soothe her to sleep, she made her escape.

The storm had blown away leaving a ragged sky and it was warmer now than during the day. A few wounded shreds of cloud blew across the moon, which lit up the street with its great wax face as Jean walked down toward the pier enjoying the last cigarette of the night.

A group of working men was just emerging from the King’s Head, boisterous with drink, as she approached. They greeted her with beery good humor, dragging each other out of her path with exaggerated gallantry that was closer to mockery than good manners. Jean, who was used to being outnumbered by inferior men, refused to be intimidated.

“Good evening,” she said briskly, causing general convulsion.

“She said ‘Good evening!’” one of them called after her departing back.

The harbor was quiet, the small boats gently nudging and dipping in the moonlight. Across the Solent the Isle of Wight was visible as a dark mass, Yarmouth a scatter of lights at the shoreline. Jean sat down on a bench to enjoy the view and let her thoughts roam in the direction of Howard, wondering where he was and if at this very moment he might be outdoors and looking at the same stars.

She was aware of somebody coming to stand behind her, a little closer than was polite, and turned to see the confused old lady from the hotel. There was something odd about her appearance; it took Jean a moment or two to realize that she was wearing a nightgown and carpet slippers under her coat. Her bare legs were tracked with ropy purple veins.

“Hello,” said Jean, looking around for the daughter. “You’ve come out for some fresh air like me.”

“No,” came the reply.

“Will you be all right getting back? It’s a fair walk.”

The woman stared at Jean with mystification and a degree of hostility. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re Nora. Little tart,” she added.

Her prospect of a quiet half-hour dashed, Jean surrendered to the responsibility of getting the old woman safely back. For a moment, stung by the irony that she had exchanged the modest demands of one geriatric for the much more urgent needs of another, she had considered leaving her to it, but there, a few feet away, was the black oily water plucking at the harbor wall.

“I’m going back now. Shall we walk together?” Jean offered her arm.

The woman allowed herself to be guided away from the pier and up toward the town, their progress impeded by her tendency to stop every few paces and turn, stiff-necked, towards Jean with some new query.