‘You say that you are in Miss Benson’s hands this evening. Unless you feel obliged to do so, I don’t see why you must return with her. I should be delighted to drive you home.’

She longed to be home, to be alone, to be able to abandon this effort to seem normal and light hearted. She told him again that he was very kind and that she appreciated it, and added:

‘Actually, I’m rather anxious to get back. I left several small jobs unfinished. But, of course, if Miss Benson doesn’t want to leave yet, then I shall shamelessly take advantage of your offer, both of the dinner and the drive home.’

‘Splendid,’ he said. And at that moment Miss Benson turned and came towards them.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I must go. Aunt Edith has bridge this evening.’

‘Miss Mayfield had just agreed . . .’ Mr Freeman began.

‘Not quite,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I really would very much prefer it to be another evening, when I hadn’t the thought of things undone nagging at my mind. Then I could really enjoy myself.’

‘Then will you suggest a date?’

‘I’d like it to be after half-term.’

‘And when is that?’

‘The weekend of the thirty-first.’

By then, she thought, I shall have done what I have to do. And if I am still alive, I shall not be in the state of mind to suspect a pleasant old gentleman of being a spy. In fact, if I ever do keep my date with him, I’ll tell him the whole story.

‘The weekend of . . . All Hallowse’en,’ he said slowly. And suddenly he looked at her sharply, dropping his gallant cock-bird manner. ‘That’s rather far ahead. Are you sure you couldn’t spare just one evening before that?’

I’ll warn her, he thought.

‘You see, I’m going to London for half-term. I’m going to . . . to buy myself a new dress.’

Well, in London she would be safely out of the way. And how touching that she should wish to have a new dress. If only she would choose something soft, in blue. . . .

‘As soon after half-term as possible, then. How about Tuesday?’

‘That would be delightful.’

‘I’ll come and pick you up. At half-past six, shall we say?’

Very odd, it was, to be making arrangements for a day she might never see, a day which might very well be – she reckoned rapidly – yes, her funeral day; after an inquest, with a kindly verdict of suicide while of unsound mind, with – this time – quite a lot of evidence about the mind’s unsoundness. They got away with Wesley Baines; they may get away with me. Am I preparing, for this pleasant person, a situation of some embarrassment, perhaps even a small pang of regret. Or is he in it? This is terrible. If this goes on much longer, I shall be out of my mind.