As Kitty left the house in London, the doctor was just about to leave Treetops.

‘Is she going to be all right?’ George asked desperately.

‘Well, I’ve splinted her arm and I’ve sewn up the gash on her forehead as neatly as I could, although I fear she will bear a scar,’ the doctor answered, snapping his black bag shut. ‘But there is nothing much I can do about the blow to the head. Mrs Jenkins could be unconscious for some time, there again she could wake up within minutes, or …’ He shook his head gravely. ‘I should warn you that she may not wake up at all. We have no way of knowing what damage may have been done so I’m afraid it’s all down to waiting now. Would you like me to get her transferred into the hospital?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Sunday said quickly. ‘I’d much sooner nurse her here. Do you agree, George? She’d be distressed if she woke up to find herself in unfamiliar surroundings – and she will wake up… I know she will! Cissie is a fighter. I’ll get her carried upstairs and we will all care for her. My mother and her new husband will be back from their honeymoon in a few days’ time and I know they’ll want to help, so between us we’ll manage just fine.’

‘Very well.’ The doctor then changed the subject: ‘You would be well advised to inform the police of what has happened. I’m quite sure that this was a vicious attack and whoever did it to her should be caught. I shall call again first thing in the morning but should you need me before then, don’t hesitate to send for me.’

‘I’ll do that. Thank you, doctor,’ George responded grimly then he settled at the side of Cissie to stroke her hand and whisper to her as Sunday saw the doctor to the door.

Another hour passed before he set off for the police station with Tom after ensuring that Cissie was safely tucked up in a comfy bed in one of the spare rooms with a blazing fire in the grate, a soft lamp alight in the corner and Kitty sitting at the side of her.

The officer on the desk at the police station listened as George told him of the attack and wrote everything down before asking, ‘Do you have any idea who may done this, sir? Did your wife have any enemies?’

‘No, she doesn’t have any enemies. My Cissie wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ George ground out. ‘But yes, I do have an idea who did it. I think it was her son, Hugh Tate.’

‘Her own son?’ The officer looked shocked and George quickly went on to tell him of how Hugh had been taking money from his wife.

‘I told her that the next time he turned up, she was to refuse him,’ George went on. ‘And if she did, I think he probably turned nasty.’ It was all his fault, George thought. No amount of money was worth Cissie getting hurt.