‘He is out at work. I have not yet seen him but he will return at teatime, overjoyed no doubt to see us back. But he will not be overjoyed when I confront him.’ She stood up.

‘Margaret, please do not go, let us talk further. There has been some misunderstanding. You know how servants talk. I am sure…’

Margaret was already at the door and flung it open to find Mrs Baxter there, stooped down at the keyhole. The housekeeper straightened up and hurried to open the front door for Margaret.

Ann watched Margaret sweep down the path then stop and cross the lawn to the summer house, where she tried the door. Thankfully it was locked. But then she saw Margaret look enquiringly towards the back of the house, as if she had heard something. Ann peered round and saw her walk round towards the kitchen where Mrs Baxter stood, beckoning. The two women spoke and the housekeeper handed something to Margaret. She held it, whatever it was, in her hand for a moment as if examining it, then stuffed it into her carpetbag before stomping down the path. Ann slumped down onto the window seat as the realisation sunk. It was the bloodied handkerchiefs from last night.

CHAPTER 52

Chapter 52

2015

‘What on earth are you doing, Mum?’ Fiona had just returned from the school run and heard harrumphing from the study.

A huge pile of papers and documents surrounded Dorothy as she sat in the middle of the floor.

‘Sorting Dad’s things. I know he has a will, we both did that about twenty years ago, so it’s just a matter of locating it. But do you know, I have no idea where his birth certificate is.’

‘Why d’you need that?’

‘He was always funny about his real age and I reckon he might have been older than he was.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mum, we’ve been through this. He’s the same age as Mark and that Bunty woman at the funeral. Born in 1944.’

‘But there was no one who knew him from his infancy. They all knew him from age six. I need to know the date.’

‘Why? Why the bloody hell does it matter? He’s gone.’ Fiona was exasperated.

‘Watch your language, Fiona. Just because your father’s gone doesn’t mean you have to take up his swearing mantle.’ She sighed. ‘I have to write the birth date on the plaque thing at the crematorium and I don’t want to just invent the year he was born.’

Fiona shook her head and sat down on the floor beside her mum. ‘What are you going to do with his clothes and his things. What about his pipes?’

‘Well, the pipes can be flung, the constant inhaling of noxious fumes can’t have helped his health one bit.’