It was later, when he had fallen into an uneasy doze, that Rupert left Fran watching over him and went to see his mother. She was in her parlour, sitting by the fire, which, recently made up, was throwing out a comfortable heat. She looked up as he came in and gave him a dreamy smile.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘I thought you were Justin. Where’s he?’

‘He’s out, Mother,’ Rupert answered. They had all long since stopped trying to tell her that Justin was dead. That had upset her every time she asked. It was as if she had to come to terms with his death anew each time she heard of it. Now, at Dr Evans’s suggestion, they simply told her he was out and she accepted that quite happily, sometimes saying, ‘Ask him to come in to see me when he gets back.’

‘I just looked in to see how Papa is,’ Rupert said.

‘Is he well?’

‘He’s coughing a bit.’

‘Poor Philip. His usual winter cough. We must find some camphor and red flannel for his chest. That always makes him more comfortable.’

‘Good idea, Mama,’ said Rupert. ‘I’ll suggest it to Fran.’

He stayed with her for ten minutes longer and then kissed her on the cheek and went back downstairs. As he crossed the hall, Mitchell came in with the postbag. Since his marriage, Rupert’s mail was addressed to him at the Dower House, but this time Mitchell said, ‘There’s a letter for you here, Mr Rupert. Must have got put in the wrong bag,’ and he handed him an envelope. Rupert glanced down at it and it seemed for a moment that his heart had stopped. The writing was not known to him, but the letter came from France. He stared at it for a second and then shoved it into his pocket, saying as he did so, ‘Thank you, Mitchell. Please will you tell Miss Frances that I’ve gone back to the Dower House. I’ll come over again later. Perhaps you’d ask Mrs Crowley if she could sit with Sir Philip for a while to give Miss Fran a break. I think she sat up with him most of the night and she ought to get some sleep.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Mitchell disappeared towards the kitchen to find the housekeeper and Rupert left the house to walk slowly home. When he got there, Kitty was still obediently in bed, so he went into his study and shut and locked the door. He could feel the letter in his pocket, as if it were burning a hole, but for a long moment he waited, afraid to pull it out.

At last he did so and looked at the envelope. The writing was ill-formed, definitely not Hélène’s, but his name and the address at Pilgrim’s Oak were spelled correctly, and the stamps were French. He sat down behind his desk and picked up his paper knife. For one moment he shut his eyes, then with a quick movement he slit the envelope open and drew out the single sheet it contained.