In this new clarity of mind she could see that the one thing she should have done, as soon as she could stand up steadily, was to have returned to the place where she was known, where there were people whom she should recognize, places and things which would spur the memory. It now seemed sinister that no one should have come to see her in the hospital and taken the chance of being recognized. It was sinister, too, that she should never have received a letter in all that time. A woman who carried a fountain pen and a book of stamps in her handbag plainly had some correspondents.

Alongside this suspicion about how other people had behaved to her, there ran another, even more disturbing. Unless Mrs Mott-Tyler had lied deliberately in saying that she had only been in Walwyk since April, there was a long stretch of time unaccounted for. During that time – and, indeed, during her time in Walwyk – she might have done almost anything. Suppose – the thought was fantastic, but it must be faced – suppose the plot which she suspected, the plot to make her seem unsound of mind, had been mercifully concocted, made in order to protect her. Suppose she had done something terrible.

She looked back at the account given of her accident. A desk lid fell and knocked her to the floor. Was that really credible? Wasn’t it more likely that someone had struck her? She had a horrid vision of herself, a madwoman, in school, attacking a child and having to be knocked unconscious. Canon Thorby’s private school, Mrs Mott-Tyler had said; and private schools were peculiarly vulnerable to scandal. Suppose it was all true about Canon Thorby helping lame-dogs and her having a bad mental record; then she had run amok and been struck down. It would all fit in with this being smuggled away, and watched, and treated like a lunatic.

It was an appalling thought, but she faced it. And she had courage of a kind. If I did something awful in a fit of madness, she told herself, I am prepared to pay the penalty for it now that I am in my right mind again.

She remembered the psychiatrist’s words about forgetting something you wanted to forget. They fitted in now.

What it all added up to was that she must get back to Walwyk. And to do that she must be cunning, bold and resourceful.

Money; that was the first essential.

She owned – at least, she had in her possession at the moment – only one thing which might be of value. Years and years ago Rose’s godmother had died, and in course of time the jewellery which she had left to her goddaughter had arrived in Entuba. Miss Mayfield and Rose had spent a whole evening opening little leather boxes and cases lined with velvet and studying the old-fashioned pieces. In the end Rose had said: