Montel came to Susan’s mind again. And she thought of his reaction when he’d met Mags. He’d been smitten. She smiled as she remembered him coming home. She’d expected him to be angry, as he’d had no joy with Harold, but no, his head was in the clouds. ‘Mon Dieu, I have met the love of my life. The most beautiful woman in the world. Majestic, elegant and in command. Je l’adore – je veux lui faire la mienne.’ ‘In English,’ Susan had demanded of him. ‘Oh, Susan, I adore her – I want to make her mine.’

This memory brought a smile to her face, but her mind raced on. What if Montel comes up and goes to visit Mags? He could say he is a cousin, and that his father married her aunt. He will be able to tell if Mags is insane or not and, knowing him – a brilliantly trained army officer, who gained the honour of being mentioned in dispatches before he was disgraced – he might find a way of helping her escape. Susan’s romantic side came to the fore then. And what if Mags falls in love with Montel? There was definitely something between them, as he told her he had a special feeling when their eyes met, and he knew Mags felt it, too.

Laughing to herself, Susan knew life wasn’t that simple, but she wished with all her heart that Mags could get out of the asylum. Oh, I’d feel so much better then, as nothing seems right now. Even when Harold makes love to me, I have Mags’s plight on my mind.

Getting up, Susan decided to write to Montel – right now – to see if there was anything he could do. But she was foiled in doing so, as the connecting door flew open and Harold burst in. His expression was difficult to read; it was akin to triumph, and yet she detected fear in him.

‘He’s gone.’

Harold was red in the face and sweaty, as if he’d been exerting himself. No! He hasn’t . . . not . . . Oh God.

‘Dead? How? I mean, what happened? How did it happen?’

‘Why are you asking that? He – he just stopped breathing.’

Susan hurried past Harold. In Mr Witherbrook’s bedroom her eyes took in the way the cushion on the chair looked as though it had been thrown there, whereas it was always neatly placed, and Mr Witherbrook’s head was on one side. That wouldn’t have happened if he’d ‘just stopped breathing’. His head wouldn’t have moved. Her voice failed her, as a hoarse whisper came from her. ‘You killed him!’

Without registering Harold moving, she felt her body being shaken violently by him. His face was a mask of anger. His spittle sprayed her cheeks as he ground out, ‘Shut up! Do you hear me? Shut your mouth. He died naturally – you witnessed his death. I wasn’t even in the room. Understand?’ His hand pinched her chin. His evil eyes bored into hers. ‘Understand?’