“Yes. She was the older sister, a difficult, morose, uncommunicative child. It was hard to believe that they were sisters. She had a disconcerting habit of staring at people, not speaking, just looking, an accusatory look, more adult than childish. I suppose I should have realised that she was unhappy—well, I must have realised it—but it wasn’t something I felt I could help. I did once suggest to Lucy, when I’d planned to take her to London to see Westminster Abbey, that Shirley might like to come too. Lucy said, ‘Yes, you ask her,’ and I did. I can’t remember what response I got—something about not wanting to go to boring London to see the boring Abbey with boring me. But I know I was relieved that I’d brought myself to ask and she’d refused. After that, I needn’t bother again. I suppose I should have realised what she was feeling—the neglect, the rejection—but I was twenty-two, and I hadn’t the sensitivity to recognise her pain or to deal with it.”

And now Kate interposed. She said, “Was it your responsibility to deal with it? You weren’t her father. If things were going wrong in the family it was for them to deal with the problems.”

He turned to her, almost, it seemed, with relief. “That’s what I tell myself now. I’m not sure I believe it. It wasn’t a comfortable house for me or for any of them. If it hadn’t been for Lucy I would have looked elsewhere. Because of her I stayed until the end of my year. After I qualified as a teacher, I decided to start on the planned journey. I’d never been abroad except for a school trip to Paris, and I went first to the obvious places—Rome, Madrid, Vienna, Siena, Verona—and then on to India and Sri Lanka. At first I sent postcards to Lucy, sometimes two a week.”

Dalgliesh said, “It’s probable Lucy never received your cards. We think they were intercepted by Shirley. They’ve been found cut in half and buried beside one of the Cheverell Stones.”

He didn’t explain what the stones were. But then, thought Kate, did he need to?