‘But I do care,’ Winnie had said. ‘That’s the trouble.’

It wasn’t until she was standing on the Tube platform, skimming through Tin Helmet on the look-out for egregious mistakes, that she suddenly remembered her encounter in the ruins of Falcon Road with the pleasingly odd boy who had turned out to live in Miss Simpkin’s house – she owed him a letter about that church carving, now that she came to think of it.

Of course, there was someone who had never cared about the opinions of others: Winnie pictured Miss Simpkin in the middle of Hampstead Heath, eye-glasses askew as she demonstrated the basics of ju-jitsu, utterly unruffled by the stares of passing strollers. Yes, that was the way to do it. Bold. Lofty. Unafraid.

A man was selling bunches of holly in the street outside St Pancras Coroner’s Court, and berries were scattered across the pitted ice. Vee was unpleasantly reminded of the previous week, when she had slipped on the pavement outside the grocer’s and dropped the tiny jar of maraschino cherries for which she’d just paid six shillings (six shillings!); the glass-strewn contents had looked like the obscene aftermath of an explosion. She’d been planning to save the cherries for the Christmas dinner table, to go with the pink blancmange that Noel had decided on for dessert, but now he’d just have to make do with evaporated milk.

‘That holly was sixpence a bunch,’ said Noel, as they followed the usher downstairs. ‘It’s a pity that the tree in our garden is male.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Only the female trees bear fruit. Hollies are dioecious, you see.’

‘You’ll need to wait through here,’ said the usher, indicating a door. He had pince-nez and the pursed expression of someone who’s just chipped a tooth. ‘Obviously, the boy can’t go into the courtroom with you.’

‘He’s just here to keep me company,’ said Vee. ‘Ooh, it’s warm,’ she said, opening the door.

‘It’s next to the boiler-house. The conveniences are through there and to the left, should you need them.’

With the door closed, it was as balmy as July. Vee sat on one of the long benches against the wall and took off her gloves.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Noel.

‘I’d be better if you didn’t keep asking me.’

‘Do you want a cigarette?’

‘What?’

‘I brought some with me, in case you needed to stay calm.’

‘You didn’t!’

He grinned, and slid a packet of Woodbines out of his coat pocket.

‘I’m all right for the time being,’ she said. ‘Anyway, they might make me cough in court.’

‘I had a talk with Mr Jepson, and he said most likely all that will happen is that your statement will be read out, and you’ll be asked if it’s correct. The coroner or the counsel for the relatives may ask a supplementary question or two, but that should be it.’

‘Good.’

‘It won’t be like being up in front of the magistrate.’