‘It’s a rotten story, really,’ he said. ‘Two miserable people who shouldn’t have been together.’

‘So when did your wife pass away?’ asked Vee.

‘Pass away? No, Della’s living in Stevenage. She left me. A cousin of hers died and willed her a house and nine thousand pounds, and she was gone the week after. You were right about rich women; she’s already filed for divorce.’

‘No!’

Vee, gaping, swung right round to look at him, and he managed a wretched half-smile. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it?’

‘But what a – a – well, I won’t say what I think of her.’

‘No, don’t,’ said Jepson, looking down at his hands. He wanted to simply leave that part of his life behind, now, like the south-coast train of his childhood, holiday-bound, dividing at Haywards Heath, one part carrying on to the crowded seaside, the other swinging eastward, to the open light of the Downs. ‘There,’ he said, looking up again. ‘I’ve told you my tale.’ And if he hadn’t told her the whole of it, it was still more than he’d ever vouchsafed to anyone else.

Vee remembered where she was, and turned her gaze to the door again. ‘It’s not the same for me,’ she said. ‘For a start, I don’t know who wrote the letter, and if that person ever decided to tell the …’ She paused. ‘The thing is, I wouldn’t want you to think I’d done anything wicked.’ Because, after all, which commandment had she actually broken by pretending to be Noel’s relation? There was ‘Thou shalt not lie,’ of course, but that had never seemed like a truly enforceable rule, since if it were, it would result in a hell stuffed not only with murderers and adulterers but also people who’d told the man from the rates that they hadn’t heard the knock because they’d been in the outside lav.

‘Of course it wasn’t wicked,’ said Jepson.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because you’re not a wicked person.’ He said it simply, just as someone might say, ‘You’re not wearing gloves,’ and Vee felt a bizarre rush of pride.

‘I did it for a proper reason,’ she said. ‘I almost had to do it.’ The snow was beginning to turn to sleet, clumps of ice sliding down the window. ‘But what good will it do if I tell you?’

‘You might feel less anxious,’ said Jepson. ‘You know – a trouble shared. And I might be able to help you, or at least to give you some advice.’

When was the last time she’d trusted another adult? She wanted to search his face, but all she had was his voice. ‘What’s your full name?’ she asked.

‘Pevensey Gerard Arthur Jepson.’

‘Pevensey?’

‘My parents met at Pevensey Bay. I was always called Gerry.’

‘Gerry Jepson.’ There was an unlikely hop and a skip to the name.

‘And I believe I know yours,’ said Jepson. ‘It’s Margery, isn’t it?’

Vee’s mouth was suddenly very dry. She took a sip of cold tea and set the cup down again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, that’s not my real name.’