So, Helena thought, she’s lost her job, is losing her brother and is now facing six months stuck in this cottage with no clear idea of her future. Looking at Candace’s profile, she felt an onrush of pity. The emotion was transitory but surprising. She couldn’t imagine letting herself drift into Candace’s situation. It was that dreadful, domineering old man, dying so slowly for two years, who had caused the mischief. Why hadn’t Candace broken free of him? She had nursed him as conscientiously as might a Victorian daughter, but there had been no love. It hadn’t needed any perception to see that. She herself had kept away from the cottage as much as possible, as indeed did most of the staff, but the truth of what was going on was known, by gossip, innuendo and by what they saw and heard. He had always despised his daughter, destroyed her confidence as a woman and a scholar. Why, with her ability, hadn’t she applied for a job at a prestigious university instead of one near the bottom of the pecking order? Had that old tyrant made it clear to her that she deserved nothing better? And he had needed more care than she could reasonably provide, even with the help of the district nurse. Why hadn’t she put him in a nursing home? He hadn’t been happy in the one at Bournemouth where his father had been nursed, but there were other nursing homes and there was no lack of family money. The old man was rumoured to have been left close on eight million pounds by his father, who predeceased him by only a few weeks. Now that probate had been granted, Marcus and Candace were wealthy.

Five minutes later Candace had left. Helena thought over their conversation. There was something she had not told Candace. She couldn’t imagine that it was particularly important, but it might have proved an added source of irritation. It would hardly have lightened Candace’s mood to be told that Robin Boyton had also booked himself in at Rose Cottage for the day before Miss Gradwyn’s operation and the week of her convalescence.

13

By eight o’clock on Friday 14 December, the operation on Rhoda Gradwyn satisfactorily completed, George Chandler-Powell was alone in his private sitting room in the east wing. It was a solitude he often sought at the end of an operating day, and although there had only been one patient, dealing with her scar had been more complicated and time-consuming than he had expected. At seven Kimberley had brought him a light supper, and by eight o’clock evidence of the meal had been removed and the small dining table folded away. He could be confident of two hours of solitude. He had seen his patient and checked on her progress at seven o’clock and would do so again at ten. Immediately after the operation, Marcus had left to spend the night in London, and now, knowing Miss Gradwyn to be in the experienced hands of Flavia, and with himself on call, George Chandler-Powell turned his mind to private pleasures. Not least among them was the decanter of Château Pavie on a small table before the fire. He prodded the burning logs into greater life, checked they were carefully aligned and settled into his favourite chair. Dean had decanted the wine, and Chandler-Powell judged that in another half-hour it would be right for drinking.