It was the kind of room where simply to speak seemed inappropriate. That did not stop me. “Stephen, I saw Milly and Joan. They were outside the prison on Sunday. Did you hear the band? Milly has given a statement about what happened.”

He gave me a look that was so briefly hopeful, and then he glanced away.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful, if he would be released? Now. This morning. I would have a bit of explaining to do as to how I came to be taking him home—wherever home would be now—but that would be worth it.

“Officer, I should like to speak to Mr. Walmsley alone.”

He gulped. “Sorry, madam. That is not allowed.”

“Why not?”

“Not today.”

I soon realised why.

The police officer who entered, nodded, and with great civility wished us good morning.

The officer urged the prisoner to his feet, and then came the blow.

“Stephen Walmsley, you are charged that on Friday, the first of March, 1929, in the Corner Shop, Silver Street, Thorpefield, you did wilfully murder Helen Farrar. You do not need to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down in writing and used in evidence against you. Do you have anything to say?”

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Mrs. Farrar.”

“Take the prisoner away.”

He passed so close to me that I could hear the gasp of his breath. “Don’t give up, Stephen. Don’t give up hope.”

When he had been taken back to his cell, I stayed in the room for several moments, trying to make sense of what I had just seen and heard.

The prison officer who had escorted me simply waited for me to move.

I turned to him. “Why now? Nothing has changed since Mr. Walmsley was arrested over a week ago.”

He spoke quietly. “He was being given the opportunity to plead guilty. That would have saved time, trouble, and public expense.”

Trudging back through the prison yard, I had to force myself to think ahead to what must come next. One thing was for sure: Stephen must have better representation than the solicitor appointed by the police.

I sat in the car to write a note to Mrs. Sugden, asking her to contact our fiercest legal friend, stopping at the first pillar box to post it. Mr. Cohen’s fees might swallow the fee we would earn from Scotland Yard, but my pristine Rolls-Royce languishes in the garage. That would fetch a pretty penny.

As I drove back towards Thorpefield, I tried to think what to do next. There is always that desire to Do Something Quickly.