The birds were singing their dawn chorus as he picked his way through the dew-laden trees and he found the place where Cissie had been knocked down quite quickly. The light that filtered through the trees made the blood on the ground stand out against the soft green grass and he shuddered involuntarily then paused to look around. At first glance there appeared to be nothing untoward but then his eyes were drawn to something white at the side of the path. For a start, he thought it was a piece of paper that had blown there, but when he bent to pick it up he found that it was a handkerchief. A very fine lawn man’s handkerchief, as it happened. And then he saw in one corner of it, the embroidered initials H. T. – and his stomach turned over. Hugh Tate! It had to be. George must have been right. But the question now was, what was he to do with it? This would provide very damning evidence when the police came to investigate the crime scene. Personally, he hoped that they could catch the fellow, lock him up and throw away the key. But what would that do to Cissie? As George had done with the letters on the day of Lavinia’s wedding, he hid the handkerchief deep into his coat pocket, but this time, it would never see the light of day.

Turning about, he made his way back to the house where he prepared a tray of tea to take up to George and Sunday. No doubt they would be grateful of a cup by now. But when he got upstairs he found there had been no change in Cissie’s condition whatsoever.

‘She hasn’t made so much as a murmur,’ Sunday informed him as she crept towards the door, leaving George holding his wife’s hand fast in his.

Tom placed the tray down and gave his wife a cuddle. ‘She’ll survive, she’s a strong lass,’ he told her with a confidence he was far from feeling and Sunday leaned against his chest, enjoying the closeness of him. It had been a trying few days, one way or another, what with her mother’s wedding, Ben’s departure and now this terrible accident! All she could do was pray that Tom was right.

Chapter Forty-Five

When Maggie entered Kitty’s room the next morning and drew the curtains aside, she was shocked to see the bruise on Kitty’s cheek as the girl pulled herself up onto her pillows.

‘What happened?’

Kitty self-consciously fingered her cheek. ‘Let’s just say I wasn’t as compliant as a certain gentleman expected me to be,’ she murmured. It was such a relief to be able to talk frankly at last. ‘No one will notice when I perform, thanks to rouge and Max Factor.’ She tried to make a joke of it.

‘Oh, Kitty, this has got to stop!’ Maggie hissed in great distress. ‘Why on earth is Richard allowing you to be treated like this if he loves you so much?’