Chapter Twenty-Five

TRUE TO WINDRUSH’S prediction, it was on Friday 29 February – the day after the Burnley by-election – that he telephoned me to say an agreement had been reached between Sir Henry and the Home Office regarding Consuela’s release. He was to meet Sir Henry in his chambers at seven o’clock that evening to learn the details and I was welcome to join them. Even as I confirmed my attendance, I sensed that the occasion would herald not just the end of Consuela’s imprisonment but the end of my involvement in any aspect of her affairs.

The afternoon was a stormy one. By five o’clock it was nearly dark, with gale-thrown rain rattling at the windows. I had just told the staff they might leave early, and was reconciling myself to a lonely vigil till the time came to set off for the Middle Temple, when Chief Inspector Wright appeared at my office door. He was damp and windblown, but I had the impression this did not account for the absence of his customary smile.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

‘I’m sorry to say I have some more questions to put to you, Mr Staddon.’

‘Well, if I can help you assemble a case against Spencer—’

‘This has nothing to do with Spencer Caswell. Not directly, anyway.’ He sat down, looked at me for a moment, then said: ‘Thomas Malahide, sir. Jobbing carpenter and habitual criminal. Found shot dead at his lodgings in Rotherhithe on the ninth of January this year.’

‘Really? I …’

‘The man who sold Lizzie Thaxter’s last letter to Gleasure. Accomplice of Peter Thaxter in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery. Employed, I believe, by your good self during the construction of Clouds Frome.’

‘Employed by the builder, Inspector, not by me.’

‘Even so, sir, you know who I mean.’ There was testiness in his voice now as well as formality.

‘Yes. I do.’ I also knew what he was about to say, but hoped I was wrong.

‘Shall we drop the pretence, then? Malahide’s murder ranked pretty low on our list of priorities until Gleasure revived our interest in it. I’ve spoken to Malahide’s daughter, Alice Ryan. She admits she wasn’t alone when she found her father’s body. The description she gave us of her companion reminded me quite forcefully of someone I know. You.’

‘I see.’

‘But I don’t, Mr Staddon. So, perhaps you could enlighten me. Why did you remove Malahide’s copy of Lizzie’s letter and persuade Alice Ryan to say nothing about you?’

‘Because the letter could have been used against Consuela at her trial. I know it was foolish, but—’

‘As I thought.’ For the first time, he smiled. ‘Well, that’s water under the bridge, I suppose.’

‘Yes. It is, isn’t it? I—’

‘But something else isn’t!’ Suddenly, he was stern again. ‘Alice Ryan thinks her father was killed because he’d just found out who the fourth accomplice in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery was. I agree with her. I think somebody had just told him, just put a name to a face. Was that you, by any chance, Mr Staddon?’

‘Yes, Inspector, it was.’ Weariness with dissimulation of all kinds was upon me. I could probably have played a dead bat to Wright’s questions and got away with it, but there no longer seemed any point. Besides, I owed Turnbull nothing, least of all protection. ‘Malahide spotted the fourth man while visiting me at Luckham Place, my father-in-law’s house in Surrey, on New Year’s Eve. He was there to demand money from me for Lizzie’s letter. I met him two days later, in London, to conclude the transaction. That’s when he asked me who the man was he’d seen at Luckham Place. I saw no reason not to tell him. I didn’t know why he wanted the information. Even if I had, I’m not sure I’d have kept it from him.’

‘And the name?’

‘Major Turnbull.’

‘Your wife’s—’ Wright chuckled. ‘If it didn’t make so much sense, I might suspect you were simply being malicious, Mr Staddon.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘Yes. I rather think it is. According to Alice Ryan, her father always suspected there had been somebody behind Burridge in the gang, supplying money and information. So, it was Turnbull. And how did he know Peto’s printed Bank of England bill paper or that their security precautions were lax? Why, Victor Caswell told him, didn’t he? They were partners in crime in South America and they remained so in Herefordshire. Turnbull recruited Burridge, who recruited Malahide, who recruited Peter Thaxter. Those three took all the risks. Turnbull and Caswell merely took the profit. And, when they had amassed as much as they thought they safely could, they tipped off the authorities and wound up the operation. I checked, you see. It was an anonymous tip-off that put the Herefordshire police onto the gang. That’s why Peto’s brought forward their stock-taking. Those two must have been congratulating each other for years on the success of their venture. But, thanks to Gleasure, Victor Caswell was made to suffer for it in the end.’

‘And Turnbull?’

‘We shall enquire deeply into his affairs, Mr Staddon. We shall make life as uncomfortable for him as we can. But, with Caswell, Malahide and Burridge all dead, I fear it will come to nothing.’

‘Insufficient evidence?’

‘Exactly so. One of the great frustrations of a policeman’s life. First, Spencer Caswell. Now, Major Turnbull.’

‘Can nothing be done?’

‘Nothing. Unless one or both of them make a mistake.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘Then they will be living proof of the old saw, Mr Staddon. You can tell what the good Lord thinks of money by the people he gives it to.’

The ramifications of my discussion with Wright were still going through my mind when I reached Plowden Buildings shortly after seven o’clock, ill-prepared for what I was to find there. Sir Henry was seated at his desk, conversing amiably with three guests: Windrush, Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho and Arthur Quarton. Sir Henry must have seen me start at the sight of Quarton, for he beamed at me and said: ‘All will soon become clear, Mr Staddon. Now that you are here, we can proceed.’

I was introduced to Pombalho, who greeted me with wintry courtesy. He was all his brother had not been, but they obviously shared one thing: a disapproval of my role in Consuela’s past. Quarton’s smile and handshake were altogether warmer, yet they gave little away. Whether Sir Henry had invited him or he had come at his own initiative was not apparent.

‘To the purpose of our meeting then, gentlemen,’ said Sir Henry as we took our seats. ‘As you know, I have been locked in negotiations with the Home Office for some days regarding the lamentable delay in Mrs Caswell’s release. Whether the fact that the electors of Burnley have now pronounced on the Home Secretary’s suitability to represent them in Parliament is relevant or not I hesitate to surmise, but certain it is that today has seen a breakthrough in those negotiations. I have been resisting Sir John Anderson’s preference for a royal pardon as the solution, since, strictly speaking, this would merely waive punishment without rescinding the conviction. I have been pressing instead for the Attorney-General to reconsider his earlier decision to veto an appeal to the House of Lords. That, I am glad to say, is the route that has now been agreed upon. Their Lordships will hear Mrs Caswell’s appeal in the light of Gleasure’s confession next Wednesday, the fifth of March. The result is a foregone conclusion. Mrs Caswell’s conviction will be quashed.’

‘But you won’t have to wait until then for your sister to be freed,’ said Windrush to Pombalho.

‘Indeed not,’ continued Sir Henry. ‘Sir John and his political masters wish to right this particular wrong as discreetly as possible. They are anxious to avoid any publicity surrounding Mrs Caswell’s release. Therefore, they propose to set her free – though technically she will be on remand until the appeal is heard – on Monday morning.’

‘At nine o’clock,’ added Windrush.

‘Esplendido!’ exclaimed Pombalho, slapping his thigh. ‘You have done well, senhores.’

‘Thank you, Senhor Pombalho,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I’m glad you think so. Mr Windrush will collect Mrs Caswell by cab and bring her to meet you at Brown’s Hotel. I have had to assure Sir John that there will be no reception committee at the prison gate. I trust that meets with your approval?’

‘Claro! I want only for my sister to be free.’

‘Am I to understand, Senhor Pombalho,’ put in Quarton, ‘that Mrs Caswell intends to accompany you and your wife when you return to Brazil?’

‘Yes, senhor. Consuela and little Jacintinha will make their home with us in Rio de Janeiro.’

‘I hope I can speak to her about the estate before she goes. Presumably she will wish either to sell it or appoint a manager.’

‘It is her decision, senhor. But I think she will wish to sell.’

‘I see.’ Quarton looked across at me and smiled. ‘You appear puzzled, Mr Staddon.’

‘Yes. I thought … That is …’

‘You thought young Spencer was now the owner of Clouds Frome?’

‘Well, isn’t he? Surely, under Victor’s will …’

Quarton held up his hand. ‘An explanation is obviously called for. With your permission, gentlemen …’ He glanced round at the others, who nodded in assent. ‘Spencer visited me at my office two days ago, Mr Staddon, labouring under the same misapprehension as you: that he was Victor Caswell’s heir. Let me tell you now what I told him then. On the eleventh of this month, the day before his departure for Cap Ferrat, Mr Caswell called to see me, bringing with him the will I drew up for him in May 1912, under the terms of which Spencer was indeed his sole heir. Mr Caswell informed me that he intended to marry Miss Imogen Roebuck as soon as Mrs Caswell’s execution freed him to do so and that he and Miss Roebuck would therefore return from France as husband and wife. He then asked me to draw up a new will in favour of the new Mrs Caswell. The timing of his request struck me as being in singularly poor taste, but we solicitors are responsible only for the legality of our clients’ arrangements, not their seemliness. It was, however, on legal grounds that I was obliged to demur. I pointed out to Mr Caswell that marriage to Miss Roebuck would have the effect of revoking any will then in existence. To appoint her his sole heiress, it would be necessary to delay making the relevant will until after the marriage. This he accordingly resolved to do, instructing me to draw up such a document so that it might be executed upon his return from France.’ Here Quarton paused, almost, it seemed, for effect. ‘He also instructed me to destroy his existing will. I therefore burned it on the fire in my office in Mr Caswell’s presence.’

‘You burned it?’

‘Mr Windrush will confirm that destruction of a will in the presence and at the direction of the testator is an entirely proper method of revocation.’

‘Quite true,’ said Windrush.

‘So you see,’ continued Quarton, ‘when Mr Caswell died on the eighteenth of this month, he was intestate. His estate is therefore subject to the laws of intestacy. Under these, one third is inherited by his widow and the remaining two thirds by his daughter, to be held in trust until she marries or attains the age of twenty-one, whichever is the earlier. No provision of any kind is made for a nephew.’

‘Spencer receives nothing?’

‘Nothing whatsoever, except an expensive lesson in not counting chickens before they are hatched.’

‘Good God. What … How did he take it?’

‘Badly. I’ve seldom known Spencer lost for words, but this was such an occasion.’

Nor was Spencer alone in his speechlessness. I leaned back in my chair and reflected on the narrowness of his failure. If Victor had decided not to consult Quarton until after marrying Miss Roebuck, if he had simply left the will in the safe the day he went to see him …

‘A gratifying conclusion, I think, gentlemen,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Most gratifying all round.’ He rose and the rest of us began to do the same. ‘I’ll bid you good evening.’ Further hand-shakes were exchanged. There was a general donning of hats and coats. Quarton and Pombalho started towards the door. I made to follow them. ‘If you could spare a few more moments of your time, Mr Staddon …’ murmured Sir Henry in my ear.

‘Oh. Very well.’ The door closed behind Quarton and Pombalho, leaving me with Windrush and Sir Henry. I looked at them quizzically. ‘It’s all … come right in the end, hasn’t it?’ I remarked lamely.

‘Yes,’ said Windrush. ‘Astonishing, isn’t it?’ His voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Sir Henry chuckled. ‘You shouldn’t cast aspersions on a member of your own profession, James.’

‘What?’ I looked from one to the other of them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There are certain inconsistencies in Mr Quarton’s account, it must be said,’ replied Sir Henry. ‘But the destruction of the will is highly advantageous to our client, so why should we quibble?’

‘What is there to quibble about?’

‘Victor Caswell wasn’t a fool, Staddon,’ said Windrush. ‘He must have realized that destroying the will would increase the chances, however slightly, of Consuela and Jacinta benefiting under the laws of intestacy. Why not simply leave the will in existence, since marriage to Miss Roebuck would have revoked it anyway?’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘When Quarton heard of Victor’s murder, he, more than anyone, knew Spencer would profit by it. Then he discovered that the police suspected Spencer of involvement in the crime. Well, it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to ensure that, even if Spencer wriggled out of a murder charge, he didn’t inherit the estate, would it? Only Quarton knew what Victor had instructed him to do at their meeting on the eleventh. If the will had simply been left with him pending Victor’s re-marriage …’

‘He could have burned it and nobody would be any the wiser?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But that’s—’

‘An outrageous breach of professional ethics,’ said Sir Henry, ‘of which none of us, I believe, can seriously suspect such a staid and honourable man as Arthur Quarton.’

I saw the glint in Sir Henry’s eyes and the reluctant smile forming on Windrush’s face. Quarton had served the Caswell family faithfully for more than a quarter of a century. He had observed their machinations and pandered to their whims without once raising his voice in protest. ‘We solicitors are responsible only for the legality of our clients’ arrangements, not their seemliness.’ Yes, he had abided by his own motto. He had bitten his tongue and kept his opinions to himself, even when Victor had chosen to disinherit his wife and daughter in favour of an undeserving nephew. But Victor’s last excess – announcing he would marry Imogen Roebuck as soon as Consuela was dead – gave Quarton an unexpected opportunity to thwart his client’s malicious intentions. I almost laughed at the thought of him tossing the will onto the fire and watching Spencer’s victory dissolve into smoke and ashes. And then another possibility occurred to me. ‘Do you suppose,’ I said, ‘that it was Quarton who placed the advertisement in the press seeking information about Rosemary Caswell’s murder?’

Windrush looked straight at me. ‘Who else could it have been?’

‘Then you mean—’

‘Alas,’ said Sir Henry, ‘these entertaining speculations are not why we asked you to remain, Mr Staddon.’

‘No,’ said Windrush with sudden seriousness. ‘We wanted to speak to you about Consuela’s release. Her brother and his wife will be waiting for her at Brown’s Hotel with Jacinta. Hermione Caswell will also be there.’

‘As will I,’ said Sir Henry. ‘It will give me great personal satisfaction to congratulate Mrs Caswell on the attainment of her liberty.’

‘But she’s asked us to ensure,’ said Windrush, ‘that you … Well, what I …’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘She’s written to me about it. She doesn’t want to see me. I quite understand. It’s for the best. Don’t worry. I shan’t gate-crash the celebrations.’

‘You have as much right as anyone to be there,’ said Sir Henry. ‘If not more. I find Mrs Caswell’s insistence on the point quite baffling.’

‘But I don’t.’ I nerved myself to look and sound philosophical. ‘My part in all this ends here, gentlemen. If I have acquitted myself honourably, if I have done as much as I could to help Consuela—’

‘As you have,’ put in Sir Henry.

‘Then I am content. It is all I set out to do. I cannot ask for more. Consuela will be free, to live as she sees fit. That is enough.’

‘Is it?’ asked Windrush.

‘It has to be.’ I forced a rueful smile. ‘And now, gentlemen, I’ll wish you both good night. Or should I say goodbye?’

Goodbye? Yes, it was that. Goodbye to five months which had seen my life disrupted beyond hope of restoration. And goodbye to Consuela and Jacinta. They would settle in Brazil and I would never see them again. It was not what I wanted. It was not what, occasionally, I had dreamt of. But it was how it would be. That knowledge went before me, through London’s storm-dark streets, to prepare its sombre greeting in the cold and empty flat I now called home.

Next morning, The Times reported that Arthur Henderson, the Home Secretary, had won the Burnley by-election with a majority of 7,037. Consuela’s name was not mentioned.

When I gave Imry the news about Consuela’s release, the satisfaction he expressed was muted compared with the jubilation he had shown at her reprieve. The storm had blown itself out and given place to a Saturday afternoon of cold and dazzling brightness. We sat drinking beer by the fire at Sunnylea, while weak sunlight shafted through the windows behind us. On Imry’s face there was the crumpled frown I had long recognized as a sign that he was worried about something. At last, after much chewing of his pipe-stem, he decided to unburden himself.

‘What are you going to do now this is all over, Geoff?’

‘I don’t know. Carry on as before, I suppose.’

‘But how can you? Things aren’t as they were. And they never will be.’

‘No. I suppose they won’t.’

‘The partnership, for instance. I’ve been wondering lately whether it has any legs left in it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I’m strictly supernumerary, aren’t I?’

‘I wouldn’t say—’

‘And you’re in need of a fresh challenge.’

‘Am I?’

‘Ever heard me talk about a chap called Phil Murray?’

‘Murray? Yes, I believe I have. Didn’t you serve with him?’

‘Yes. He was liaison-officer in a Canadian regiment we were supposed to support at Ypres in 1915. A fellow-architect, as it turned out. He had a practice in Toronto. Quite successful, I understand.’

‘And?’

‘And we still correspond. He’s often said he’d be interested in taking on an English partner. Me, if I felt up to it, which I don’t. Or somebody I could recommend.’

‘You mean me?’

‘I think you and Phil would work well together, certainly.’

‘You’re suggesting I uproot myself and start afresh in Canada?’

‘What is there to uproot, Geoff?’

I gazed into the fire for a moment, then smiled in concession of the point. ‘Not much.’

‘Then isn’t it worth considering?’

I was still considering Imry’s proposal when I returned to Hyde Park Gardens Mews that night to find a letter from Hermione Caswell waiting for me on the mat.

Brown’s Hotel,

Albemarle Street,

LONDON W1.

1st March 1924

Dear Mr Staddon,

I have hesitated more than is my wont before writing to you, since I know Jacinta’s uncle would disapprove and I suspect Consuela might also. But, as you know, I am not one to be swayed by the disapproval of others!

Jacinta has asked me more than once why, of all the people who contributed to saving her mother’s life, you have since been the least conspicuous. Frankly, I do not know how to answer her. If all goes according to plan, she will soon be leaving for Brazil, perhaps never to return. Do you intend to let her do so without having the opportunity to thank you and to say goodbye? Is that what Consuela asked of you in her letter? If it was, I am probably wrong to say what I am about to. But I shall do so anyway, since, in my opinion, a farewell is the least you and Jacinta deserve of each other.

I have promised to take her to the Zoo tomorrow afternoon. I shall ensure that we stop for tea in the café by the Mappin Terraces at three o’clock. If anybody we know chanced to be there at the same time, it would be a happy coincidence, do you not think?

I remain sincerely yours,

Hermione E. Caswell.

I fell asleep that night vowing I would not go. What was the point? What could it achieve, except to remind me of all I had lost and could never regain? Jacinta was my daughter, but I had forfeited the right to tell her so. Her life had begun where my past in it had ended. Time’s harshest lesson could neither be untaught nor unlearned. There was no turning back, no setting right. There was only the path I had chosen without realizing it.

And so, inevitably, I went. The afternoon was cold and bright, the sun low and glaring over Primrose Hill. I bought a pink balloon from a salesman in Regent’s Park and carried it with me through the Zoo, past the capering children with their doting nannies, the elephants with their keepers, the croaking ravens and the screeching gibbons, and Decimus Burton’s clock tower that showed me 3 p.m. had barely passed.

Hermione and Jacinta were at a table near the door of the café. Hermione was devouring a Chelsea bun, while Jacinta ate nothing, whereas, at every other table, children were gobbling cakes and biscuits whilst the adults fasted.

‘Mr Staddon!’ exclaimed Jacinta at sight of me. ‘What a wonderful surprise!’ She looked so small in her tweed overcoat, so very young in her muffler and her beret. Her face was flushed with the chillness of the air. Her eyes were sparkling. Her eyes were Consuela’s.

‘Hello, Jacinta.’ I clumsily offered her the balloon.

‘Why, thank you.’ She frowned. ‘How did you know we would be here?’

‘Oh, I didn’t. I always buy a balloon when I come to the Zoo, in case I meet a pretty girl to give it to.’

Jacinta glanced at Hermione, then smiled up at me. She almost seemed about to laugh, but did not.

‘May I join you?’

‘Of course.’

‘I have a better idea,’ said Hermione, with a mischievous wrinkle to her mouth. ‘Jacinta wants to see the lions and the tigers. But I’m too tired to walk another step. Why don’t you take her, Mr Staddon?’

‘Well … Would you like that, Jacinta?’

‘Oh, yes please.’

Some children were carried on their fathers’ backs. Others merely held their hands. But Jacinta and I walked solemnly apart, two strangers observing the formalities, risking nothing, venturing little. Given a few months, we might have grown to trust each other. In a few years, who knows what might have been possible? But we had only a few minutes, strolling past the barred cages where the lions dozed and the tigers prowled.

‘I wanted to come,’ said Jacinta. ‘I pleaded with Aunt Hermione to bring me. But I wish all these beautiful creatures did not have to be in cages. I wish they were free.’

‘Like your mother?’

‘Yes. That is wonderful, isn’t it, Mr Staddon? Tomorrow, my mother will be free.’

‘Are you looking forward to going to Brazil?’

‘I don’t know. I have been looking at some of the animals I will see there. Reptiles. Serpents. Enormous spiders. I am not sure I shall like those. But it does not really matter, because my mother will be there too, so I know I shall be happy.’

‘Of course you will.’

‘Mr Staddon—’

‘Yes?’

‘Why did my father leave everything to cousin Spencer in his will?’

‘That’s all been changed.’

‘I know. But why did he? What about my mother? What about me? Didn’t he want us to have anything?’

‘I … don’t know.’

‘That is what everybody says when I ask them. Nobody seems to know. Or, if they do, they do not want to tell me.’

‘I’m sure that’s not the case.’

‘Oh, but it is. They all think I am too young to understand, you see.’

‘Perhaps you are.’

‘So, when will I be old enough?’

‘When your mother says you are.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not for me to say. I’m not—One day, you’ll understand.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I touched her shoulder and gave it the faintest of squeezes. ‘One day, you’ll understand everything.’

She looked up at me, unsmiling now as well as unquestioning. And then, after many minutes had seemed to pass, she said: ‘Well, you must be right, Mr Staddon.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it was you my mother said I was to ask for help. And you did help, didn’t you? You helped save her. You kept your promise.’

‘Perhaps. But I haven’t always kept my promises.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Good.’ I looked hastily away, forestalling tears by an instant. Still the sun shone, bright on the pink balloon that wobbled beside us on its string. ‘I’d rather you didn’t believe me, Jacinta. Much rather.’

‘I shall write to you from Brazil.’

‘And I’ll write back.’

‘Will you come to see me one day?’

‘If you ask me.’

‘Oh, I will. When I am old enough.’

‘Then I’ll come.’

‘Is that a promise?’

‘Yes, Jacinta. That’s a promise.’

Half an hour later, Hermione and I were seated on a bench near the bear-pit. Jacinta was standing out of earshot by the parapet, gazing down intently at the sad-faced bruins. Hermione, who had returned from Hereford on Friday, was explaining to me the tense and cheerless atmosphere that had prevailed at Fern Lodge.

‘Marjorie is scarcely coherent, I fear. And Mortimer refuses to discuss anything except business. I think he is trying to block from his mind the possibility that Spencer had a hand in murdering his uncle as well as his sister.’

‘He can surely take some comfort from the fact that the police aren’t pressing charges.’

‘Perhaps. But Mortimer is not blind, Mr Staddon, merely dumb. He saw – as did we all – how triumphant Spencer was when he was released. The boy was concerned with only one thing: how to pursue his claim to Victor’s estate.’

‘He must be crestfallen now, then.’

‘So I imagine. But Spencer has either been out or hiding in his room since his interview with Mr Quarton. Consequently, I’ve had little opportunity to assess his state of mind. Frankly, I am more worried about Mortimer. He is too proud to show what he really feels. Rosemary and Victor dead; Spencer disgraced; and, on top of everything, the suspicion that Victor had some involvement in the Peto’s Paper Mill robbery. He cannot even face his own brother-in-law, let alone the outside world.’

‘So, Brazil really is the best place for Consuela and Jacinta to go. As far away from all that as possible.’

‘Yes. I’ve no doubt it is. I wish them both the happiness they deserve. As to those of us who must stay behind …’

‘What’s to become of us, eh?’

‘What indeed? Would you care to venture a prediction, Mr Staddon?’

‘No. I don’t believe I would.’

The time came for them to leave. They were expected back by five o’clock and Hermione had no wish to arouse the Pombalhos’ suspicions by being late. She would, she had told me, swear Jacinta to secrecy about meeting me. So it was that I procured a cab outside the main gate shortly after half past four and saw them aboard.

Hermione kissed me and Jacinta, as if emboldened by her aunt’s example, did the same. There was the lightest brush of her lips against my cheek, a whispered ‘Goodbye, Mr Staddon – and thank you again for everything you did for my mother’. Then I was shouting their destination to the driver and the cab was moving. Jacinta was waving and I was waving back. Her face became blurred by distance. Then it ceased to be discernible at all. The cab kept moving. The invisible string between us paid out, tightened, stretched taut and snapped. And I stood where I was, more truly alone than I had ever felt before.

I walked slowly back across Regent’s Park and down through the silent streets of Marylebone as afternoon merged with evening. It was colder than ever now, and the sky was no longer clear. Clouds were massing to the north, low and heavy, oddly tinged with mauve and purple.

As I turned in to Hyde Park Gardens Mews, a neighbour with whom I was on nodding terms emerged from his door. ‘Hello,’ he said with a grin. ‘Don’t like the look of that lot.’ He twitched his head towards the cloud-bank.

‘Nor me.’

‘Cold as well, eh?’

‘Yes.’ I glanced up at the sky. ‘I think it may snow tonight.’