“Mr. Kershaw corroborates Blake’s story. He says it’s probably his fault that the shears are in the bag because he forgot to take them back.”

Blake looks at Grace, a narrow-eyed glance that assesses her reaction. It carries guilt as well as relief; you would have to know him very well, as she does, to see he is still hiding something.

Mr. Richards is continuing. “. . . not complacent about weapons of any sort in school. The police classify bladed garden implements as weapons if found in an inappropriate place; school is an inappropriate place. Blake knows this. His good record of behavior, Mr. Kershaw’s endorsement, and the fact that this is a gardening tool all work in his favor.” He sighs briefly. “Blake will tell you we met with the school safety officer this afternoon. As a first offense and for the reasons I’ve just related, we will not be taking this further at the present time, beyond recording the incident in detail, of course.” His tone sharpens. “However, you will know that knife crime is soaring—forty thousand knife-related crimes in Britain last year and counting. The police take even the possibility of such crimes extremely seriously. If Blake brings any instrument that carries a blade into school again the consequences will be significant.” He stands briskly and opens the door. “I’ll be sending you a letter.”

They walk out to the car in silence. Blake climbs in the front, ignoring Poppy’s questions.

Grace drives to Dulwich Hamlet and hurries in for Charley. Her daughter slides into the back seat next to Izzy and then leans forward eagerly. “Any news?”

“Not yet, but the police are searching, people are looking all over London—”

“Could you stop saying that?” Izzy interrupts. “You are upsetting Poppy. And Blake.”

She leans forward and trails her fingers over Blake’s face. Blake is frozen; there is something about his immobility that reminds Grace of an animal caught in a trap.

“Poor Blakie,” Izzy murmurs, then she leans back again.

A decision arrives in Grace’s mind like a gift or directive. “Silly me. I forgot to go to the bookshop.” She turns the car onto Eve’s road and pulls up outside the gate. “You girls go in; Blake needs a couple of books. We’ll have to pop back to the village.”

“Can I come?” Charley asks. “I want a book.”

“This is for school. Out you get now, girls, we won’t be long.”

The girls get out silently; she watches them walk slowly up the drive. Izzy has her arm around Poppy, who is hunched into herself. Charley follows, shouldering her backpack and glancing back at the car.

“Which books?” Blake asks.

“I’ve just had a better idea. Let’s get some tea—the books can wait.”

The café is packed—it’s that time of day when energy runs low; people need a pick-me-up, something sweet in their mouths. They are jammed against three women eating macarons and some kids from the middle school stuffing their mouths with crumpets; questions about the shears will have to wait till they are back in the car after all. Grace orders tea with crumpets and chocolate cake. They’ll chat instead, as she’s wanted to do for weeks.