“And, really, I think Michael knew that it was impossible. He probably even knew that right at the start, but he wouldn’t give it up. He started going back out there, you see. He’d go out there for weeks on end, going over the ground, picking over it all. Like a scab that he refused to let heal. He went out there with a spade. Can you imagine? Digging over all those terrible places. It was dangerous and it was bad for his health. His health never really recovered after he came out of the hospital, and all of this made it so much worse. I tried to reason with him. Of course I did. I begged him to stop, to give it up, but I don’t think that he actually could. It was a torture to him, and it was a torture to see him like that, but at some very fundamental level he needed to do it. Or, at least, he needed to try.”

“Did he find any of the men he was looking for?” Edie pictures the young man in the tweed jacket out there in that terrible landscape. She pictures his spade digging and all of the amusement falling out of his eyes. She needs to know what he was looking for and what he found.

“Yes, which gave him all the more reason to carry on, I suppose.” She looks at Edie. “Why did you want to speak to Michael?”

“Because my husband is missing. I thought that he might be able to confirm some details for me. Please say no if this is too intrusive, but could I perhaps look through your brother’s papers?”

Louisa hesitates. “Could I perhaps ask your husband’s name?”

“Francis Blythe.”

Louisa nods. “For some odd reason I did think it might be. I know his name. It used to be there so often in Michael’s letters.”

“You do?”

“Well, they were friends, weren’t they? He was the young chap who took photographs with Michael. Isn’t that right? And his was the last name that Michael crossed off his list. I think that finding Francis Blythe rather drew a line under things, like Michael felt he had come to a point where he had done enough.”

“He found Francis?”

“Oh, how do I say it? I am so sorry, Edie. You shouldn’t hear it like this, should you? Michael found Francis Blythe’s grave.”

EDIE CRIES THEN like she hasn’t cried before, not even when the telegram came, or when she got the first letter from Michael Rose. Because now it is final. Because now finally it is real. Louisa puts her arms around Edie as she cries, and Edie feels how Louisa cries too. When it is done, when Edie can cry no more, Louisa pushes the damp hair away from her face, looks her square in the eye, and smiles.

“Forgive me,” Edie says.