Should she go? Common sense told her to leave it alone. Fantasy conjured up an image of dazzling James with her knowledge. He wouldn’t know she had been in the Crimea. She could backdate her visit and say she had been there the year before. So, you see, James, I really am interested in military history. You never really knew me.

Agatha thought briefly of phoning up the Dakkar Resort Hotel to see if James was still there, but decided that he must be. He had a lot of research and writing to do.

Agatha managed to find a taxi driver who spoke English. The Allied landings had taken place all the way down the Gallipoli Peninsula, so she settled on ANZAC Beach, site of the Australian and New Zealand troop landings to the north of the peninsula, by the Aegean Sea. The taxi driver assured her it was only a few hours’ trip from Istanbul.

The rain was drumming down by the time she reached the famous beach. She took photographs, she read the moving dedication on a monument to the fallen soldiers of both sides, and then wearily got into the cab thinking dismally that she should have stayed in Istanbul and just read up on the place.

Her taxi was just moving back out on to the main road again when a car with James at the wheel and Felicity beside him passed her. She ducked down, to the surprise of her driver.

Bill Wong got another phone call from James that evening. ‘I’m telling you, Bill, I saw her at Gallipoli. She’s chasing me! Please find out if she’s all right. I’m afraid she’s taking my engagement badly.’

Long afterwards, Agatha was to blame her visits to the two famous battlefields as having been caused by that fall down the stairs. She must have hit her head. How could she have been so stupid?

For back in the familiar surroundings of her cottage in the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds, back to work, Agatha’s obsession with James faded away.

She comforted herself with the thought that James had surely not seen her, and besides, she had told everyone that her holiday had been spent entirely in Istanbul.

Shortly after her arrival home, on a pleasant Saturday afternoon, she decided to visit Mrs Bloxby at the vicarage.

The vicar’s wife welcomed her. ‘I know you probably want to smoke, Mrs Raisin, but it’s quite chilly in the garden.’ Both of them belonged to the Carsely Ladies’ Society, where the members addressed one another by their second names, and despite their close friendship, the two women found the custom impossible to break.

‘I’ll live without one,’ sighed Agatha. ‘Rotten nanny state. Do you know that pubs are closing down at the rate of twenty-eight a week?’

‘The Red Lion is in trouble,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘Never! Our village pub?’