The cast on my arm went from just above the knuckles to below my elbow. With help from Mrs. Sugden, who cut out the sleeve from a very old raincoat and fastened it over my arm with tape, I was able to risk taking a bath. The belt from the raincoat made a temporary sling. As a nurse, I would have told a patient not to do any such thing.

Mrs. Sugden hovered on the landing, tapping on the door every few minutes to make sure I didn’t slide under the water and undo the doctor’s good work.

I was resting on the sofa, too tired to climb back up the stairs, when the despatch rider arrived from the French Embassy, wheeling a Gnome Rhone motorcycle onto the garden path. Mrs. Sugden opened the door. After unpeeling layers of clothing, the rider turned out to be an elegant young woman. Her name was Catherine.

Seated on an armchair by the fire, with sausage and mash on a tray, she told us that she had first ridden a motorbike during the war, and the love of it never left her.

The letter she brought from Bernard Campaner informed me that communications had been made to the British government at the highest level, praising “the Kate Shackleton Investigation Agency” and regretting the false start that shrouded early enquiries into Mr. Aspinall’s death. There was also a hand-written note about stock exchange interest in the Bluebell Mine, and a commitment to help ensure justice for Stephen Walmsley.

Mrs. Sugden wanted Catherine to have a good night’s sleep. I was happy for her to take my bed. That gave me a good reason to stay put on the sofa.

She chose to snatch two hours’ instead, and had brought her own alarm clock.

I urged her to sleep for longer, but she refused. This was not entirely out of concern for her welfare. I did not want her to crash on the way back and lose the precious bundle of paperwork that I hoped would damn the guilty and free Stephen Walmsley.

Much as I now felt I could trust Chief Inspector Emsley, I wanted to cover all possibilities for saving Stephen and ensuring that the guilty would be brought to justice. Even as I thought that, I felt sick to my stomach about Gertrude. A horrible dizziness came over me. I had asked Mrs. Sugden for pen and paper. My hand shook as I took the pen. The room started to spin.

“Lie back,” Mrs. Sugden said. “Give yourself time to recover. That bath was too hot.”

“I need to add a note for Catherine to take with our paperwork for Monsieur Campaner, telling him that Gertrude and Eliot confessed to me.”

For that moment, my strength fled. I couldn’t think how to begin. “I need to tell him what they said, and what happened.”