‘And then they’d never come back!’ said Vee, riveted.

‘That’s right.’

‘So how did they get caught?’

‘From what I remember, one of them got collared for something else, and confessed.’

‘And they went to prison?’

‘Oh, yes. Hard labour on the Isle of Wight.’

‘Oh,’ said Vee, suddenly breathless. They were still sitting back to back, but she’d been so caught up in Jepson’s stories – told with great journalistic flair and economy – that she’d briefly forgotten her own peril and had half turned towards him. She snapped her gaze back to the door again, but no one new had come in for a while. The V-2 that had rattled the window an hour or so before seemed to have frightened off shoppers, though it had dropped far enough away not to have caused any local damage – Jepson had nipped out to check, and had returned with the reassuring news that it was west of them, and nowhere near Noel, and home.

‘I had someone who worked at the Board of Trade as a lodger once,’ said Vee. ‘Mr Titus. He was a good payer, but he never cleaned his teeth and his breath smelled so bad that Noel used to call him Titus … something … oh, what was it? A word that meant “stink” – he said it was ancient Greek, and it rhymed.’

‘Mephitis?’

‘Yes, that’s the one. Titus Mephitis.’ She hadn’t ever heard Jepson laugh before, and the noise was amusing in itself – a breezy giggle, quite at odds with his usual gravity. Vee aimed another look at the door. It was nearly five o’clock and already dark.

‘What time was he supposed to arrive?’ asked Jepson.

‘After two. That’s all he put. Though I suppose it might be a she – I never thought of that.’

‘Do you have the letter with you?’ asked Jepson. ‘I know you’ve told me what’s in it, but handwriting can be very revealing.’

Vee took the envelope from her handbag and passed it behind her. She heard the rustle as Jepson extracted the single sheet of paper, and the pause as he read the pencilled lines.

‘Oh,’ he said, his voice light with surprise. ‘Yes, I’d say that’s a man’s handwriting – and an educated man, at that – but the thing is, there’s hardly anything here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are no details at all, nothing concrete, no reference to St Albans, no mention that Noel was your evacuee. He doesn’t even know your real name.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Because he’d almost certainly have used that knowledge to frighten you. The phrase “I am aware that you are not actually Noel Bostock’s aunt” is terribly nonspecific. Any blackmailer worth his salt would have begun the letter with …’ Jepson lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘“Dear Vera Sedge” and put you straight on to the back foot.’

It was years since she’d heard her full name spoken, and she hadn’t missed it. ‘Vera’ had always sounded to her like the low moan of a cow waiting to be milked. ‘So you don’t think it’s someone who knew me in the past, then? Someone who moved to London and spotted me?’