‘I never thought, until now, that you should wear a ruff, Ethel; I’m not sure that anyone would, in the circumstances; but you must have a big upstanding ruff, and you must take it off – rather slowly – and that will be a kind of symbol of resignation.’

‘I ain’t absolutely sure that hem is level,’ said Audrey with self-important self-criticism.

‘I am not,’ Miss Mayfield corrected her.

‘You neither?’ said Audrey, misunderstanding. ‘Turn round, Ethel. No, not like that – slowly. I’m right; it cocks up on the left.’

She went down on her knees and busied herself with the pins.

Miss Mayfield, under cover of watching this operation, went close, took a position slightly behind Ethel, and when Audrey said, ‘There, that’ll do. Nothing else wrong that I can see,’ Miss Mayfield leaned forward and ran down the zipper.

With admirable self-control she only said:

‘All right, Ethel, you can get dressed. And now, Audrey, what about your own?’

Half an hour later she sat alone in the deserted schoolroom, brooding.

Once – and although it was in time so recently, it seemed half a lifetime away – Canon Thorby had told her that if ever she needed a woman confidante, his sister was the one to go to. And now, little as the idea appealed to her, it seemed the right thing to do . . . And I shall take that little doll, just to prove that I am not imagining things, she thought.

She rose and went through the now familiar motion of feeling under Ethel’s desk. The box had gone. Between the Thursday afternoon and Friday, it had been removed. All that remained to show that it had ever been there was a slight stickiness where the tape had adhered for so many days.

I was a fool not to have taken it while I had the chance, she told herself bitterly. Then she had a second thought; far, far better to approach this on the level of fact, not of fancy. What she imagined and what she suspected had no part to play here at all.

She went home, made a rather stronger pot of tea than usual and forced herself to drink it calmly. Then she washed her face in cold water and combed her hair. It was just half-past five when she rang the bell at the Rectory and was admitted by Reeve, who, when she asked for Miss Thorby, said nothing to indicate that Miss Thorby was not receiving that afternoon. However, shown into a room which she had not entered on her first visit and which she saw was a library, she was greeted by the Canon, who said with a kind of mock plaintiveness:

‘Please, will I do?’ He then added, in his ordinary manner, ‘Poor Isabel has one of her incapacitating headaches and is lying down.’

‘I’d rather tell you about it, really; but you did once tell me that Miss Thorby . . .’