His grin shows nearly all his teeth. “You meet a tall, single, golden-haired woman in thigh-boots, and you don’t have designs. You must be off your nut.”

“I doubt she’ll consider me for a minute.” I bring the tea mugs to the sink. “Not only does she not go to church, she doesn’t believe in God at all.”

Tom starts the washing up. “Does that bother you?”

“I’m saying, it’ll bother her.”

“But she said yes to your invitation.” There’s a pause while he scrubs the porridge pan. When he speaks again it is very steadily, his gaze directed firmly down at the washing-up bowl. “I’m glad she’s tall and English-looking. No chance of being spooked. You know, when she turns up on the doorstep.”

He flicks me a glance, his eyes fiery.

“Oh, Tom.”

I want to embrace him but he’s attacking the porridge pan again, so I must hug his back. Which he lets me do.

—

Redwood House is lit up yellow and welcoming when I arrive. Terry Shaw is in the dayroom. “I’m glad you’re here, I was going to ring you,” she says. “It’s Bridget. She’s desperate to see you.”

“Bridget?”

“Bridget Moore.” Her face is tight with anxiety. “I can’t work out what the matter is, and neither can Philip. We’ve only just realized it’s you she wants. It’s not good for her, to get so het up. She’s stopped eating. I know you have so many calls on your time . . .”

“Terry, this is my job,” I tell her. “I can’t stay all day, admittedly, but long enough.”

Her face brightens in relief. “I’m so glad you said that. Only Mr. Blakemore was always so impatient . . .”

Bridget Moore is sitting in a large armchair. She’s become visibly frailer in the week that’s elapsed since the party, her wrists poking bonily from the sleeves of her cardigan, her skin papery.

“Lost your appetite, have you, Mrs. Moore?”

I expect her, as before, to say yes in reply to my remark, imbuing the word with her chosen meaning. But instead I’m jolted by her deep dark glare. Is it anger? No, urgency. She opens her mouth and her voice rattles out like water over pebbles. I lean forward, straining all my powers of comprehension but I can’t distinguish any consonants let alone intelligible words.

“Bridie, do try and calm down,” pleads Terry.

“Bridie, that’s a nickname from Ireland,” I remark. “Are you Irish, Mrs. Moore?”

“Yes,” says Bridie, with half a grudging smile.

“Have you ever played the yes-no game?”

She lifts one shoulder. I care little for games.

“Suppose we try it? If your answer is yes, say yes. If it’s no, make a sign. What sign do you want to make?”

She lifts her good hand and lets it fall in a gentle slap onto her knee.