One of the workmen called to him, and our conversation came to an end. Who should I believe? Gertrude who had told me that children had to leave the home because it was no longer safe, or the engineer who said it would last another hundred years?

After a few moments, Gertrude and I retrieved our horses and set off.

“Thank you for showing me this, Gertrude. It’s an extraordinary sight. How long will it take to open the new pit?”

“Search me, Kate. I don’t usually have much to do with this, but I thought you’d find it interesting—for your article.”

Either she said those last three words in a way that let me know she mistrusted my story of an article, or I was imagining her distrust.

“It’s a pity there hasn’t been someone taking photographs from the time the building was demolished, creating a photographic record.”

“I suppose so. But it doesn’t do to be sentimental, or to look back. There’ll be decades of work here. The miners made a mistake, going on strike. They won’t do that again in a hurry—let themselves be led astray by hotheads.”

“I thought they simply wanted more pay.”

“They preached that the coal in the ground and the plenty of the land is there for everyone. They didn’t understand how much outlay, how much investment is needed. Not that I have much to do with it.”

I thought of Commander Woodhead’s suspicions about a representative of a foreign power bringing money to foment unrest. Perhaps that was not a chimera, dreamed up out of desperation. If men who had suffered great hardship to the point of starvation met a man who said, “Let’s do it all again,” he might receive a savage welcome.

Think of something practical to ask, I told myself. Don’t give yourself away.

“How will you transport coal from here?”

“It’s not difficult to lay an extension to the rail line, apparently. There’s nothing between here and the main line except waste ground and a few trees.”

A few trees.

She meant Bluebell Wood.

Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Back at Thorpefield Manor, Gertrude and I ate a light lunch and went to our rooms, agreeing to meet before dinner.

Feeling like a character from a girls’ adventure story, I left the house and strolled about the walled garden, admiring the daffodils. From there, I slipped through the gate and along to the bee boles, holding a short note for delivery by Philip.

Mrs. Sugden, Please visit Stoneville on York Street, Wakefield. Enquire about the children from Bluebell Children’s Home, Thorpefield. Also, the shop is now with an agent.

As I slid the note into the space in the wall, my fingers touched something hard and round. It was a pebble—a message from Philip that he was as good as his word and had called again.