“After a time I stopped sending them, thinking that Lucy had either forgotten me or was busy with her school life; that I had been an important influence for a time, but not a lasting one. And the awful thing is this: in a way, I was relieved. I had a career to carve out for myself, and perhaps Lucy would have been a responsibility as well as a joy. And I was looking for adult love—aren’t we all in our youth? I learnt of the murder when I was in Sri Lanka. For a moment I was physically sick with shock and horror, and, of course, I grieved for the child I had loved. But later, when I remembered that year with Lucy, it was like a dream, and the grief was an unfocused sorrow for all ill-treated and murdered children and for the death of innocence. Perhaps that was because I now had a child. I didn’t write to the mother or grandmother to commiserate. I never mentioned to anyone that I had known the family. I felt absolutely no responsibility for her death. I had none. I did feel some shame and regret that I’d not continued trying to keep in touch, but that passed. Even when I returned home, the police didn’t contact me to question me. Why should they? Shirley had confessed, and the evidence was overwhelming. The only explanation anyone ever received was that she had killed Lucy because her sister was too pretty.”

There was a momentary silence, then Dalgliesh spoke. “When did Shirley Beale get in touch with you?”

“On the thirtieth of November, I received a letter from her. Apparently she had seen a television programme on secondary education in which I had appeared. She recognised me and noted the name of the school where I was working—still work. The letter simply said that she remembered me, that she still loved me and she needed to see me. She told me she was working at Cheverell Manor and how to find my way there, and suggested that we meet. The letter horrified me. I couldn’t imagine what she meant by still loving me. She had never loved me or shown the slightest sign of affection for me, nor I for her.