The room was badly lit with just a single dim bulb overhead. I ventured to the back of the room, around the corner and found Beamish precariously balanced in the near dark at the top of a ladder in a sort of cupboard.

‘What on earth are you doing up there?’ I gasped.

‘What does it look like?’

‘I don’t know,’ I snapped back, ‘that’s why I asked.’

‘It’s where the blasted fuse-box is,’ he said, sounding strained. ‘Something’s blown in the kitchen and I need to see what it is. If that lot out there don’t get their teas and coffees . . .’

‘There’ll be a riot.’

‘Exactly, so are you going to help or not?’

‘I’ll go and find the vicar.’

‘No,’ he said, sounding impatient. ‘I don’t need the vicar, I need you.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘right.’

‘You’re lighter than he is.’

‘What’s that got to do with the fuse-box?’

Quite a lot as it turned out. With just the one ladder between us, Beamish thought it would be a good idea for me to climb up ahead of him and he would follow up behind, as it were. My job was to shine the torch at the fuse-box, leaving his hands free to fiddle about with whatever it was that needed his attention. It didn’t sound like the safest of ideas but with the clock ticking I scaled the heights with Beamish hot on my heels.

‘Am I squashing you?’ he asked, once we were in position.

‘A bit,’ I said, feeling him lean into me. ‘I hope this ladder is safer than it looks.’

‘It’s fine,’ he muttered, pressing his body closer.

‘Can you see anything?’ I squeaked, trying not to look down for fear of feeling even giddier.

‘I think so,’ he said, stretching around me.

‘Look,’ I said, even though the timing was ridiculous, ‘I really came to find you because I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes,’ I said, shifting a little to give him better access to the box.

‘Well do you think you can hang on to it for a bit?’ he groaned, pressing me further into the rungs.

‘I suppose so,’ I gasped.

‘For pity’s sake, hold the torch higher.’

I didn’t much care for his tone but stretched as far as I could. He was quiet for a few seconds and I hoped he was working on the problem.

‘Hattie,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ I gulped. ‘Have you done? I don’t think I can breathe like this for much longer.’

‘What’s that on your wrist?’

‘Oh,’ I said, jerking my arm back and almost dropping the torch. ‘It’s nothing.’

Out of all the details I had planned to divulge, my bruises were the one thing, especially given Beamish’s family history, that I was going to keep quiet about.

‘It looked like something to me.’