Turning from her, Diana looked at the big wardrobe. Would she find Narnia in there or would she discover a bunch of cashmere sweaters wrapped in dried lavender? Pulling the door open, she was enveloped in her mother’s scent. In order of length were five dresses which would cover any occasion she had been to in recent years. So different from the rich silks and bright colours of her past wardrobe. There were four skirts, and four pairs of trousers plus five jackets and six white blouses of different fabrics. The other side of the wardrobe was as neat with folded t-shirts, jumpers, shorts and jeans.

Opening the drawers, everything was in place. It was nothing more than a larger version of Diana’s capsule wardrobe for travelling. The only colour to be found was in the collection of Hermes scarves. She felt around in the knicker drawer and came across all the letters she had written from boarding school. They were in date order. The older she became, the fewer the letters. That told a story in itself.

She sank onto the bed looking at the handwriting on the envelopes. It would take more strength than she had to open them now. She put them aside and looked at the handbags on the bottom of the wardrobe under the hanging clothes. They were simple and elegant. Inside each she found no more than a folded hanky.

Nothing. There was no story to tell or to find here. Diana began putting the bags back when a memory returned. She bent down and ran her hand along the bottom of the wardrobe. A piece of wood shifted, and her hands touched leather. She pulled out a case that was instantly recognisable in royal blue leather with her mother’s initials in gold on the top. It was thick with dust and she used one of the hankies to wipe it before she opened it. Lottie would love this, so she picked it up and went in search of her daughter.

81. Joan

81

Joan

5 August 1962, 1.15 p.m.

As I walk into the kitchen, I sense the change in atmosphere. The local policeman, Pat Treneer, is seated with a notepad open and Tom has his head in his hands. How long before London will be brought in? I glance at my wrist. It is one o’clock. No doubt someone is on their way by now. A phone call would have been made, if not by Tom then by George or both.

‘Mrs Trewin.’ Pat Treneer stands.

‘Hello Sergeant.’

‘I’m afraid I need to ask a few questions . . .’ He turned to the doorway. ‘We’ll need to take a look at your bedroom.’

‘Of course.’ I bow my head slightly. Everything was as it should be in there. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit untidy.’

‘Not to concern yourself about that.’ He picks up his notepad. ‘Could we go someplace more private?’