‘Never in my hearing.’ Dulcie sipped her tea. ‘But I’d be willing to swear that she would never have gone back to her husband. She was scared to death of him.’

‘And the boy?’

Dulcie didn’t answer for a moment. ‘He was a strange child, Marie. Very insular, hated the refuge and its restrictions. He spent most of his time in their room, although I think his mother did make an effort to home-teach him. No matter how hard I tried, he never spoke more than two words to me that I can recall. Though he did talk to Nan. I remember that.’

That could have saved your life, Dulcie, thought Marie. He talked to Nan and look what happened to her.

After a few more words, Marie realised that there was little more to be got from this woman. She asked her last question without much hope. ‘Did Claire have a friend she might have confided in? Someone she seemed close to?’

‘Yes,’ Dulcie said. ‘Ruthie Grey.’

‘Ruthie!’ echoed Harriet. ‘No one talks to Ruthie.’

Dulcie laughed. ‘Ruthie cleans the house, has done since it opened, and she’s probably the most taciturn person I’ve ever met. But she and Claire seemed to have an affinity. If Claire talked to anyone, it would have been her.’

‘Is she still with you?’ asked Marie hopefully.

‘Only a few hours a week. She’s getting on now, but she still tries to do her bit,’ said Harriet. ‘She lives in Church Walk, the last house before the churchyard, a tiny two-up two-down cottage. It’s called Thimbledown.’

Marie thanked the women for their help. She decided to take a walk and see this woman of few words for herself. You never knew.

* * *

The door was opened by a sharp-featured, almost skeletal woman who stared out at Marie from beneath lowered eyebrows.

‘Mrs Ruthie Grey?’ Marie said brightly. ‘DS Marie Evans, Saltern Police. I wonder if I could have a word?’

‘Why?’

She intensified the smile. ‘Dulcie and Harriet said you might be able to help me with my inquiry.’

‘Did they really. What inquiry?’

‘It’s about Claire and her son, Leon.’

There was a slight softening in the expression, then, without a word, Ruthie pushed the door wider and turned on her heel.

Marie followed the retreating back into a cottage kitchen that seemed to have come from another era. She gasped. ‘Oh, this is beautiful!’ Her gaze travelled from the old range to the butler sink and scrubbed wooden table. There was even a glass oil lamp.

There was a flicker of what might have been a smile. Ruthie pulled out a chair. ‘Tell me she hasn’t gone back to that bastard. He hasn’t hurt her, has he? Or the little lad?’

‘No, Ruthie, it’s not that. But we are desperate to find them, her and the boy. We suspect her husband murdered Nan Cutler, and he’s terrorising women in the area.’