The train was slowing and there was a general bustle as people gathered their things and prepared to alight. Ivy’s heart was thudding so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it, and the squash of people was making it hard to breathe, but she edged forward and finally stepped down onto the platform.

Moving away from the tide of passengers hurrying towards the barrier, she paused and took a deep breath, then dug her ticket out of her jacket pocket and slowly rejoined the flow. She’d sent a telegram yesterday, informing the Johnsons of the time of her arrival, but would someone be here to meet her – or would she have to make her own way to the village of Amesbury? Doing a mental calculation of the money she had to last her for the duration of this visit, she handed over her ticket, hoping there was a bus service to Amesbury and she wouldn’t have to get an expensive taxi.

‘Miss Tucker?’

Ivy snapped out of her thoughts and saw she was being addressed by a pleasant-faced, rather rotund and dapper little man in a three-piece suit and bowler hat. ‘Yeah? That’s me,’ she replied with inbred London wariness.

‘Richard Johnson,’ he said, swiftly removing his bowler to reveal a head as bald and polished as a billiard ball. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, although of course my wife and I wish it was under more pleasant circumstances.’

‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ she said, at last remembering her manners. ‘It’s ever so kind of you to meet me.’

Ivy found she was an inch or two taller than him and as he stuck out his hand, she saw how pale and smooth it was and wondered fleetingly if his handshake would be limp and unpleasantly moist. But his grip was surprisingly firm and cool, his gaze direct but kindly. No wonder he’d been the branch manager of the local bank for so many years, she thought. The old ladies must love him.

‘It’s the least I can do considering the long journey you’ve had to make – and the reason for it,’ he replied, reaching to take her suitcase. ‘The children will soon be home from school and Marjorie is preparing high tea, so we’d better get on.’

Ivy smiled inwardly as she followed him outside to the black Austin car, for it was just like him, all round and polished, and as neat as a new pin.

He opened the door for her, then closed it carefully before depositing her case on the back seat. Taking his place behind the steering wheel, he racked the seat as far forward as he could and then drew on a pair of leather driving gloves. ‘Just a short drive home,’ he said as they set off at a decorous pace into the traffic. ‘I expect you’re hungry after that long journey.’