But then, after the initial shock, I began to rationalise: who was I to pass judgement? I wasn’t the person she had thought I was, either. I wondered if anyone was ever really who they professed to be. All of us show only the faces that we want people to see; we are composed of many layers, and choose only to peel them back to reveal our true colours if and when we see fit.

*

After a few days, and the opportunity to fully digest our discovery and reason everything through, we concluded that we would stay put in Avoncote; for the time being, at least. It was our plan to let out Rose Cottage for a while, with a view to using the income to make some improvements to our own home. More governed by practicality than me, Jack had tried to persuade me that we could knock both cottages together to create a more spacious home, but I couldn’t get my head round the idea of living in a house where a baby had been murdered. He agreed reluctantly to maybe selling it on at some point in the future, but for the time being we settled on the rental idea. I was happy enough with our own home, even if it was a bit on the small side. And there were only the three of us, after all.

We attended Mrs Barley’s funeral, booking into a B & B in the little Dorset village she had once called home. It was only for the one night, so Jack had asked a colleague to take care of Jobie (and Mrs Barley’s poor lovebirds, who had now become a permanent fixture in our home) for us until our return. The service was a muted affair, with only Jack, Elodie and me, plus two sweet-looking elderly local ladies, who had apparently known the Barleys from when they were children.

After a couple of hymns and a perfunctory eulogy inside the old church, we traipsed to the graveside while the vicar delivered the final words of the ceremony, committing Mrs Barley’s soul to eternal rest, and watched solemnly as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Dappled light shimmered through the trees, a soft breeze ruffling the white lilies laid on the ground that had adorned the casket. The only sound was that of the birds, twittering as they foraged and swooped tirelessly from hedgerow to branch to feed their demanding offspring. There was an undeniable air of tranquillity and calm. The old woman was at peace now, and with her beloved Frank once more.

In spite of everything, I cried silently. Her life had been undeniably tragic, and the only people left to mourn her were little more than strangers who had known her for only a tiny fraction of her life. It seemed pitiful.