‘Are you saying that my wife might have killed Frank Heywood?’ Arthur Throsby demanded.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ Hawthorne replied. ‘A big dose for him. A smaller one for her. The curry will disguise the taste. And the restaurant will get the blame. Do you really think it so unlikely?’

Arthur Throsby thought for a moment, then he gave a sniff of laughter. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her!’ he exclaimed. ‘She was capable of anything, my Harriet. If she slept with him, it was only because she wanted something from him.’ He thought back. ‘You know, it’s very strange, but now that I think about it, I remember walking into her bedroom the next day, after she’d been released from hospital. She was sitting up in bed, writing Frank’s obituary for the Argus.’

‘What was so strange about that?’ Olivia asked.

‘He hadn’t died yet.’

There was a shocked silence.

‘So much for Frank Heywood,’ Hawthorne continued. ‘But what about Philip Alden? There’s no mystery about who was responsible for his death, even if the whole truth has never really come out. It was Stephen Longhurst who thought up the trick that killed him because it was Stephen Longhurst who really hated him.’ Hawthorne approached Martin Longhurst. ‘Did you know the truth about your brother, Mr Longhurst? That he was the one in charge, not the other boy?’

‘I only knew what my parents told me.’

‘Your parents, or their lawyers, bribed one of the witnesses. They perverted the course of justice. A poor little kid got the bigger sentence – ten years in jail – when it should have been Stephen who took the rap.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Why did you go back to the school? Why did you pretend you were going to send your own children there?’

‘I can’t answer that, Mr Hawthorne.’ Longhurst bowed his head. ‘All my life, I’ve been haunted by what happened at Moxham Heath Primary School. It tore my family apart. Even if Harriet hadn’t written her book, it would have destroyed us. I just wanted to see where it happened, to try to understand. I couldn’t explain myself to the head teacher, so I made up a story about my own children. I suppose you could say I was trying to lay a ghost to rest.’

‘I’d like you to know, incidentally, that I did write to you,’ I said. I couldn’t resist chipping in, even if no one on the stage had a clue what I was talking about.

Nor did Martin Longhurst. He looked at me blankly. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The head teacher said you used to read my books. You wrote to me and you didn’t get a reply.’

‘No.’ He scowled. ‘She’s got that wrong. It wasn’t you. It was Michael Morpurgo.’

‘Oh.’ I felt my cheeks burning and twisted in my seat.

Fortunately, Hawthorne had already moved to the front of the stage, working his way towards the final act. ‘Are you still awake, Cara?’ he called out.