His tone was somewhat jocular, but the girls looked up at him with wide eyes that were confounded and scared. A few months ago, a black policeman would not have talked to them the way he just had – of this they were certain. However, they knew enough to know that, since the end of the war, things had changed. Some of the girls had parents packing up their belongings so that the Biddulphs van would come and carry them to new homes in South Africa. Some of the packed belongings would eventually make their way to Australia, New Zealand, Canada and the United States of America – any English-speaking country that had a comfortable, predominantly white settler population that did not ask itself too many uncomfortable questions.

All the girls had family and friends who had been part of similar moves over the past five years, so they all understood that things were changing. Even at their school, a few black girls had been admitted.

What was not so clear to the girls was what all this change meant for them in this particular moment – that is, in their interaction with the black policeman who was not dressed like a black policeman had just spoken to them with uncharacteristic authority. Perplexed, they turned to the one who had called Saskia a kaffirboetie. The ringleader blinked myopically, her world much smaller than it had previously been, and turned and slunk away. Deflated, the others followed suit.

‘Why are you here?’ Saskia asked at last, regarding the Chief Inspector in much the same way the girls had – with due suspicion.

‘Because this is where your mother, Mrs Findlay, lives,’ the Chief Inspector said matter-of-factly.

Saskia looked at him for a long time before taking a deep breath and saying, ‘I see.’ Resigned, she slowly opened the squeaky gate and walked into the gloriously overgrown garden. ‘It’s like walking through a picture-book illustration,’ she said as she led the Chief Inspector up the crooked stone path to the front door. ‘Perhaps that is why those girls believe it’s the home of a witch.’ She turned to him and attempted a smile before knocking on the cottage door instead of using her key. Without the ceremony of a veranda, the cottage was taken by surprise when Saskia knocked.

There was a movement of curtains by the window before the door was opened. Her mother definitely looked like a character from an illustrated fairy tale – flowing, snow-white hair and a black dress with a cape. She was still beautiful, and, although she had just turned sixty-two, the wrinkles on her face were not deep but of a fine gossamer quality that made her seem almost perfect. She looked like a fairy godmother, but, of course, looks could be deceiving, and a pointy hat might have changed the whole effect.