Hope for Tomorrow

Book 0: Hope Stapleford Mystery

by Caroline Dunford

Genres: World War II; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

'A Sparkling and witty crime debut with a female protagonist to challenge Miss Marple' - Lin Anderson

'Impeccable historical detail with a light touch' - Lesley Cookman, The Libby Sarjeant Series

'Euphemia Martins is feisty, funny and completely adorable' - Colette McCormick, Ribbons in Her Hair

'A rattlingly good dose of Edwardian country house intrigue with plenty of twist and turns and clues to puzzle through along with the heroine of the book, Euphemia Martins' - Booklore.co.uk

Hope for Tomorrow - the third edition of the exciting spy thriller Hope Stapleford Mystery series!

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Hope rises to a challenge as pilots take to the skies...

It is 1940 and the Battle of Britain takes to the air as Hope Stapleford embarks on her third thrilling adventure...

It is 1940 and, as the Battle of Britain takes to the air, Hope Stapleford is recruited to join the Special Operations Executive. In the nick of time, spymaster Fitzroy intercepts; she is his intelligence operative after all, and he wants to send her to a Scottish airfield where Harvey is already stationed undercover as a mechanic.

At the airbase, Hope and Harvey find a community in turmoil. Pilots talk of strange sightings in the air and local mechanics report mysterious scratches appearing on the wings and fuselage of the aircraft. Is this a case of homegrown sabotage or something more sinister? And why has Cole, an old colleague of Fitzroy's, suddenly appeared? Glowing orbs, grieving mothers and the legacy of dead German pilots are only some of the challenges Hope must face to complete her latest mission...
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Readers LOVE Caroline Dunford's gripping thrillers!

'Wonderful in its writing, chaterisation and plot the book never fails to entertain' ***** Reader review for HOPE TO SURVIVE

'This is one of the best written mystery series that I have read' ***** Reader review for HOPE TO SURVIVE

'They're so well written that they're hard to put down! I can't wait for the next one!' ***** Reader review for HOPE TO SURVIVE

'This has got to be one of the best writers of mystery books' ***** Author review for HOPE TO SURVIVE

Release date: February 17, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 256

Sample

‘What do you mean it’s about my father?’ I asked.

Fitzroy kept his eye on the clouds ahead. He didn’t immediately answer. The plane bumped again in the mild turbulence outside. The night was calm enough, but the small, light craft bucked at every air current. Involuntarily I groaned. The British double agent I had caught earlier in the day had managed to give me a whacking great thump on the head. His head had fared worse, but I had been barely conscious when my godfather, Fitzroy, had found me. He’d flown in unexpectedly, landing close to where I’d been fighting. By the careless way he’d left his aircraft without a backward glance, and by the strut of his walk, I’d known it was him. He mopped up the end of my adventure, taking most of the credit, more, I think, by habit than any malign design. Then he literally swept me off my feet to plonk me in the passenger seat of his aircraft.

‘Head still sore, Hope?’

‘What do you think,’ I muttered between gritted teeth. ‘I shouldn’t be flying. You bullied that doctor into saying I could.’

‘Hang on a mo, I think . . .’ He let go of the controls and continued to steer with his knees while he reached over the seat behind him. The plane ducked and dived more than ever.

‘Should you be doing that?’ I managed to keep my voice level.

‘Don’t fuss,’ came the muffled reply behind me. ‘Just let me know if anything gets in the way.’

‘What?’

‘You know, like a bird or something. How’s that dial doing, by the way? The one that I couldn’t get working. Give it a tap for me, will you?’

I leaned over and tapped at the dial that had troubled him earlier. ‘Still nothing,’ I said.

‘Aha!’ My godfather turned back round with a furry cap in his hand. He dumped it on my head, and took the controls in hand again. ‘Keep your head warm,’ he said. ‘Should make it less sore with the altitude and whatnot. I say, I wonder if that’s the altimeter. This dashboard isn’t the one I’m used to.’

‘Altitude?’

Fitzroy peered more closely along the dash. ‘Oh, my mistake. That’s this one.’ He tapped another dial. ‘Working perfectly.’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I fly more by instinct. That’s how it was in the Great War. None of the luxuries pilots get nowadays. Parachutes. Hah!’ He took his hands off the stick again and gestured around him. ‘Practically like travelling by Pullman.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t keep taking your hands off the controls,’ I said.

‘Bah!’ he said, varying his term of disdain slightly. ‘Modern planes more or less fly themselves.’ I could have sworn I heard him add ‘thankfully’ under his breath.

‘Now, you were about to tell me about my father,’ I said, settling the hat more firmly on my head. Annoyingly enough it did seem to be helping.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to teach you about the stars? It’s a glorious night. Clear as anything. You’ve got to take time, Hope, to appreciate the beauty around. If you concentrate solely on whatever disaster mankind is up to—’

‘Like war?’ I said sarcastically.

Fitzroy turned and gave me one of his most charming smiles. These are always quite blinding, especially as nowadays he’s often all dour and stoic. ‘Exactly, my dear god-daughter. Like war. If you only concentrate on that nonsense you’d go completely mad. Take the good moments that the good God sends you.’

Now I knew he was stalling. I don’t remember Fitzroy ever going to church when he visited us at home. My father always said it was just as well. ‘If he steps inside the building, Hope, he’ll probably go up in a puff of smoke. Divine retribution for all his misdeeds.’

Of course, my father had said it with a smile on his face. When I was older, I became less sure he meant it as a joke, but my mother always laughed and agreed.

‘My father,’ I said. ‘What’s happening with my father?’

Fitzroy’s shoulders heaved with another big sigh. ‘You really won’t be guided, will you?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I demanded.

‘I’m sorry, my dear. It doesn’t look as if he will pull through this time.’

I took a deep, unsteady breath. ‘We’ve been here before and he’s always made it. We shouldn’t give up hope yet.’

‘My dear girl, do you think your mother would consent to me – me! – flying you home if she didn’t think this time it was serious. You know how she feels about my flying. She hates it almost as much as my driving.’

‘More,’ I said. ‘She thinks you’re a good driver.’

‘Really?’ said Fitzroy in a brighter voice. ‘Well, that’s nice to know.’

‘But serious isn’t the same as dying,’ I said.

‘I don’t believe your mother could ever put the word dying and your father’s name in the same sentence. Besides, Dunkirk—’

‘Yes, I am terribly proud of him,’ I said.

Fitzroy nodded. ‘That’s exactly how he would want you to remember him. Like that. Not as an invalid.’

‘Do you mean he didn’t think he would come back?’ I said. I stared out into the darkness, following his gaze. ‘Do you mean he wanted to die?’

‘I think he’d had enough of putting your mother through the ups and downs. He hated the strain he put on her. Despite their arguments they are totally devoted to each other. I’ve always known that.’ Was it my imagination or did I hear a tone of regret there? ‘But no, I don’t think he went to die. He knew the risk, certainly, and I imagine he thought if he didn’t come back, he’d have made one last difference in the world. It’s certainly the way I would like to go. Doing something useful rather than lying around half dead.’

I inhaled sharply at this.

‘Sorry, Hope,’ said my godfather, ‘that must have sounded insensitive. I don’t mean your father lies around being an invalid all the time. In fact, in between his bouts of illness he’s always been more than up to the job.’

‘It’s a pity he ever started doing the job,’ I said.

‘Please,’ said Fitzroy. ‘You’re sounding like your mother. I never made Bertram do anything he didn’t want to. And I knew absolutely nothing about him planning to go off in his friend’s boat. He kept the whole thing under wraps. Even from me. Most impressive.’

There were a lot of things I could have said, but I was beginning, since I had come to work for him, to realise that my beloved godfather was not a man without faults. He might have been the hero of my childhood, but now as I entered into the shady world of espionage, I was learning he was far from infallible. Yes, he was hugely courageous, but he was also stunningly egotistical and sure of his own abilities. There was little point arguing with him on anything, unless you had a cast-iron case and a method of compelling his attention. It was fortunate he was intelligent and frequently worked things out for himself.

‘Try and get some sleep,’ he suggested. ‘We’ll be there sooner than you think, and whatever we find, you’ll want to be as together as you can.’ He looked round at me for longer than I found comfortable, and added, ‘You look awful. What your mother is going to say—’ He broke off, shaking his head. Then added, ‘I did think your hand-to-hand combat was better than this. I’ll have to see what we can do about it.’

I didn’t even bother trying to defend my reputation but curled up as best I could and closed my eyes. I didn’t think sleep was likely, but I also knew I wasn’t up to any more conversation, especially with Fitzroy. When he was trying to be kind, it was always rather like an electric eel snuggling up to you. There was no way you were going to avoid being stung.

It felt as if I had barely closed my eyes when I heard Fitzroy softly repeating my name. I opened my eyes and looked at him. Even in the darkness I could see signs of fatigue written across his face. There were bags under his eyes, and a five o’clock shadow had sprouted on his normally clean-shaven jaw. He stared intently forward, his profile made rough granite by the shadows.

‘Good, you’re awake. Always best to be awake during a landing. If anything goes wrong you have a better chance of getting out.’

‘Especially if you’re the pilot,’ I said sleepily.

Fitzroy gave a low crack of laughter. ‘Especially then. Ready?’

I nodded. Though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was meant to be ready for. Fitzroy pulled at a lever. Or rather struggled to pull it. ‘Come on,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Come on, damn it!’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Landing gear. Plane’s been kept in a shocking state,’ he grunted with effort. The lever gave and then came off in his hand. ‘Ah,’ said my godfather in quite a different tone. He fiddled with the lever. ‘I wonder if I can reattach it. Hmm, sheared off, I fear. Be a sweetheart, Hope, and look to see if the light over there is on.’ He indicated a rough area of the dashboard with a careless flick of a finger. My stomach wobbled a bit as I realised which light he was indicating. It had been helpfully labelled.

‘No,’ I said as calmly as I could. The landing gear had not been released. We were going to crash.

‘Damn it,’ said Fitzroy dispassionately. Then he half rose and stamped hard on the floor several times. ‘And now?’

‘No. I don’t think it works like that. Are there any parachutes?’

‘Hmm, what? No. Too low anyway,’ said Fitzroy. He kicked the floor hard enough to make the little plane wobble. Astonishingly, the light in front of my eyes winked and then lit up.

‘It’s on!’ I shouted.

Fitzroy winced and sat down. ‘I’m right next to you, Hope. No need to raise your voice. Now let’s hope that little bulb is telling the truth.’ Then quite calmly he set about guiding the plane in.

It was my first chance to see White Orchards from the air, but I couldn’t take my eyes off my godfather. There were no beads of sweat on his brow, and his forehead remained smooth and unworried. For the first time I wondered if he was more mad than courageous. Or if he simply had a death wish.

‘Are we all right?’ I asked.

He kept his eyes on the horizon as our descent continued. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Your mother would have my liver if I crashed with you on board. And as I like a decent drop of claret that would be a great pity. But brace yourself just in case,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

Then with an almighty jolt we touched the ground. However, the plane seemed to have a different view of things than my godfather. Although the landing gear was clearly, and thankfully, down, the plane didn’t seem to want to follow suit. Instead it bounced back up into the air. Fitzroy wrestled with the controls, and we bounced off the ground again.

‘Bloody gravity,’ he muttered. ‘Never there when you need it.’

We bounced another four times before we stayed down, swinging in a fishtail, as he pulled up short of the courtyard gates. I found myself plastered to the door. Fitzroy raised an eyebrow at me, and offered his hand. He pulled me upright.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

‘Feeling safer now we’re down.’

‘Don’t let a bit of hopping worry you,’ said Fitzroy. ‘Any landing you walk away from is a good ’un. Now all we need to do is trundle right up to the front door.’

We had landed in the field in front of the house, rough grazing we kept for the sheep. Indeed, as he taxied through towards the house gates, more than one woolly face peered up at me, looking rather startled.

‘Are you sure the wingspan will fit through the gates,’ I said.

‘I think so,’ said Fitzroy, ‘don’t you?’

The question came out as a mildly curious one, and alarmed me further. Then, as we approached the gates, I saw two figures emerge from the house. One immediately began to run towards the plane, while the other held back.

It was still too dark for me to be sure who they were. I only knew neither of them was short enough to be my father. He must still be ailing. Fitzroy brought the plane to a stop. ‘Out you hop,’ he said, as he reached for the catch on his door. He disappeared in a flash, leaving me scrabbling with my door, and wondering how I was going to get down without jumping. I feared the top of my wounded head might pop off if I leapt down to the ground. Fitzroy’s door flapped in the wind. He’d not bothered to shut it. I heard him say, ‘Oh, my dear girl, I’m so sorry.’ Then I heard a muffled sob. Turning back from the stubborn catch on my side, I saw the silhouette of him embracing a smaller figure, who could only be my mother. I pulled harder at the door, and finally it fell open.

Giles, our butler, stood on the ground in front holding out his hand. He was near enough that I could see how rigidly he was standing.

‘We’ve put him in the library, Miss Hope,’ he said, his voice thin and reedy instead of its normal bass tones. I realised he was trying not to weep.

‘How long ago?’ I asked.

‘No more than an hour, miss,’ said Giles. ‘It was very peaceful. I don’t believe . . .’

My composure cracked. I ran towards the house. I knew it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t stop the thought that perhaps my father was sleeping, that he was resting, waiting for me, before he . . . before he . . . He wouldn’t go without saying goodbye. I knew he would have waited for me. They had made a mistake. I would have known if he’d gone. I would have known.

I ran up the steps to the front entrance. There was a maid sobbing in the hallway. I wanted to stop and tell her it was all right, that there had been a mistake, but I didn’t have the time. My father was waiting for me. He was almost out of time, but he was waiting for me.

I flung open the library doors and stopped. My father was lying on top of a long table. Some kind of trestle from the outbuildings, I guessed. A light green linen cloth had been thrown over it, and a pillow of a similar hue placed under his head. Looking at it I recalled that it was one of a pair that used to be on the bench in the hall, and wondered what had happened to the other. My father wore one of his favourite brown check waistcoats. One of those hard-wearing country ones. But instead of a normal jacket he wore his favourite smoking silk. Two still-wrapped cigars peeped out from his front pocket. The fez Uncle Hans had given him, and which I’m sure he would have worn to bed if mother had let him, had been placed on his head. The fez was even older than I, and I could see the neat stitching of my mother’s needle where she had darned and re-sewn the object she hated over and over again, because her husband loved it so much.

My throat tightened. I took one pace forward. His favourite brown brogues peeped out at the end of the blanket. The ones he always used for walking. Except now they no longer bore their usual coating of mud, but shone to a mirror-like finish. On the table beside his right hand were his reading glasses, neatly folded. Another step and I could see his face. It hadn’t changed. It was the same old owlish face surrounded by his beard and his hair. Someone had tidied the straight line of his moustache, but no one had shaved his side whiskers as my mother had threatened to on more than one occasion; she said he looked like a sheep.

He was still my father. My aged, white-haired, slightly – or perhaps in truth more than slightly – plump, kindly faced father. Unlike my mother, whose hair showed barely a trace of silver, my father’s hair, still thick, was white and woolly like his beard. My mother teased him about looking like Father Time, but he always seemed to me more like Father Christmas on holiday.

I noticed then that on his left side someone had left a small pile of books. I walked around the table, not touching anything, and read the spines. Alice in Wonderland, Ten Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, The Iliad, and Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Every Christmas Eve that I could remember he had read to me from that book. It was never officially Christmas for me until I heard the opening lines in his voice: ‘ “Marley was dead; to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.” ’

I saw my tears splash onto the linen cloth and mark it before I realised I was crying, silently, endlessly, like I had the whole sea inside me trying to get out.

‘Come and have a cup of tea, Miss Hope,’ said Giles from the doorway. ‘Get yourself warm.’

‘The fire isn’t lit in here,’ I said stupidly. ‘Won’t he be cold? I can’t leave him in the cold.’

I heard footsteps behind me, and then the tartan blanket we keep in the music room for when the winds sweep down across the Fens, unfurled above my father and descended around him. ‘Do you want me to cover his face?’ said Fitzroy.

‘What if he wants to read? They put his glasses behind him.’ My voice hitched on a sob.

‘His eyes are closed,’ said my godfather, ‘and he’s sleeping now. Let him rest.’

He placed a hand on my shoulder as he twitched the blanket over my father’s face. ‘Come away now, my dear. Giles won’t be happy till you drink some of his wretched tea, but I have a flask in my pocket that will help make it more palatable.’

‘I don’t want to leave him,’ I said, resisting the gentle pressure on my shoulder.

‘My dear girl, do you think he would ever leave you? He’ll always be with you, Hope. He loved you.’

I was exhausted and I don’t believe my godfather was much better. I half drank, half drowned in the bowl of soup I was given to ‘warm me up’. The three of us – my mother, Fitzroy and I – were in the dining room. Normally, for such an informal meal, we would have eaten in the library, but obviously not tonight. We gathered down one end of the large table, and my mother had the soup urn and bread placed on the table, before dismissing all the staff.

She rose to her feet to serve us, but Fitzroy took the ladle from her hand. ‘I’ll do this, Euphemia. You look all out.’

She sat and glanced up at him. ‘You look awful.’

‘Thank you. Hope is suffering from a mild concussion. None of us is at our best.’

The words ‘especially my father’ flickered across my mind, but I managed to keep them between my teeth. I realised I was so tired I was verging on hysteria.

‘I think I’ll just head up to bed,’ I said.

‘No,’ said my godfather sharply, ‘you will not.’

‘I’ll help in any way I can tomorrow,’ I said, ‘but I’m practically asleep on my feet.’

‘I know, and you can escape to your bed as soon as you’ve finished your soup, and at least half of one roll.’ He passed another bowl to my mother. ‘And that goes for you too, Alice,’ he said, using her code name. ‘It’s an order. I don’t believe you’ve eaten all day.’

‘I had breakfast,’ my mother said meekly, and picked up her spoon. She hesitated and looked over at me. ‘I am very grateful you’re here, Hope. And you, Eric. I don’t think I could have borne today if I didn’t know you were on your way. I appreciate everything you both did to get here as soon as you could. Your father knew you were coming, Hope. He said he needed a little nap before you arrived . . .’ She looked down into her soup.

Fitzroy, who had been serving himself, took his seat again and reached over to place a hand on her shoulder. ‘I take it it was his heart?’

My mother nodded. She raised her head again and pressed her lips together to hold back the tears. She put a hand on top of my godfather’s, and gave him a swift smile. ‘Yes, that’s what Dr Butcher thinks. The attack was early this morning. There had been no sign anything was wrong, and then . . . Afterwards, when he was resting, I think he knew. I said something about it being a near thing, and he didn’t agree with me, but asked me if I knew where you were, Hope. Dr Butcher wasn’t worried. We both knew that the hours afterwards are a dangerous time but, if anything, it looked as if your father had pulled through better than before.’ She hesitated. ‘I think I even berated him about this all being down to his love of sailing.’

Fitzroy removed his hand and began to calmly break his roll. ‘He would have liked that,’ he said. ‘Bertram never felt better than when you were sparring with him.’ He caught my eye. ‘I don’t mean arguing, Hope.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. And I did. Although I would have found it hard to put into words. My parents’ relationship had always been a passionate one. They fought like cat and dog over politics. My father was far more of a socialist than my mother would have liked. My mother believed firmly in noblesse oblige, and always did her duty whatever the cost to herself. But that would turn in a moment into an exchange of affection. ‘Father always wanted you to feel his equal, Mother,’ I said. ‘He treated you like—’

‘A fellow combatant?’ she said. ‘We were always on the same side, you know. We just differed in our methods at times. Your father hated that he couldn’t keep up with me in the field, but he was strong enough to let me continue working for the Department without him. I don’t think many men would have countenanced their wives doing that.’

‘Especially with me being involved,’ said Fitzroy with a smug little grin and, showing atrocious manners, he dunked his bread in his soup.

My mother smiled. ‘He liked you in his way. He trusted you with me.’

‘Yes,’ said Fitzroy. ‘I suppose he did.’ He sounded as if he wanted to add something more, but stopped.

‘I cannot believe he’s gone,’ my mother blurted out. She inhaled, her face creasing into a frown, her shoulders raised high as she physically tried to pull herself together. Then she stood. ‘Please, finish your soup. I can’t . . .’

She made to leave the room, but Fitzroy was quicker. Before she could reach the door, he was beside her and had pulled her into his arms. She gave a small cry, resisting him for a moment. I stood up, unsure what to do. But then all the rigidity left her body and she hid her face in his shoulder.

‘Damn,’ said Fitzroy. ‘I knew I should have told Griffin to pack my mackintosh.’

‘Wretched man,’ said my mother through his shoulder. To my utter astonishment Fitzroy kissed the top of her head. I had never seen him display any physical affection to my mother.

‘Sit down and finish your soup, Hope,’ he said. ‘I’m going to escort your mother to her room. I’ll return shortly.’

‘Shouldn’t I—’ I began, thinking I should be the one to go with her.

‘No,’ he said firmly.

When he returned some twenty minutes later, I was resting my head on the table and thinking about using the tines of a used fork to keep my eyes open. ‘Ah, good, you’ve eaten something. You should get off to bed yourself.’

‘Shouldn’t I stay with Mother?’

Fitzroy shook his head. ‘Perhaps if you two were closer, but I think Euphemia would feel she had to put on a brave face for you. Heaven knows she’s going to have to do that over the coming days.’

‘But not with you?’

‘No, never with me. She knows she can be herself with me.’

I left him helping himself to another bowl of soup. Everything felt wrong. I paused in the doorway.

He looked up from his meal. ‘What? You know I eat when I’m tired, and I am very, very tired. It’s only going to be worse tomorrow.’

I nodded to him. It was hardly the platitude I wanted to hear, but he seemed in an odd mood, so I went off alone to my room. Sitting in the middle of my bed, waiting for me, was Fitz, the bear Fitzroy had bought for me as a baby. He was a large stuffed toy and made a suitable armful. So I picked him up, kicked off my shoes, and lay down on the bed. My eyes were full of painful sharpness. I pulled the bear close to my face, breathing in the scent of him that had always comforted me as a child, and cried silently into his fur.

I quickly discovered that when someone dies things get very busy. The next two days passed in a blur of activity. There was no more time to cry. Dr Butcher had signed the death certificate and the service in the local church had been arranged. Mother and I had to decide on the hymns. Fitzroy suggested ‘For Those in Peril on the Sea’ and had to quickly reassure my mother he was referring to my father’s gallantry.

It wasn’t long after breakfast that first day that everyone who lived locally or who had ever known us began to arrive to offer their condolences. Cook was kept busy producing sandwiches and cake at short notice. Fitzroy handed me paper and pen and told me to write up my last mission. ‘Before you forget,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but it has to be done. And details, Hope. I want details.’ I more than half presumed this was to keep me out of the way. Visitors from further afield arrived, and the staff had rooms to prepare and Mother had people to greet.

A couple of men in extremely smart suits came to present their condolences, but couldn’t stay more than the night, and were extremely polite, and courteously distressed that we had to put them up for even that short amount of time. Fitzroy kept me as far away from these two as possible, even sending me luncheon where I sat in the morning room working over my report.

My godfather, who was a constant presence overseeing matters, had summoned both his major-domo, Griffin, and his dog, Jack, to his side. They both arrived very early the morning after us. Apparently, they had set off in Fitzroy’s car late into the night. And Fitzroy never let anyone else drive his car. Ever. Also, he had more than an adequate supply of clothes on-site. A long time ago, he had become such a frequent visitor that part of the attic had been converted into rooms for him. However, both man and dog soon made their uses evident. Even though this Jack, around nine months old now, was more snappy than his predecessors, he followed their disposition in the adoration of my mother. I didn’t even know she had met the puppy. But then Fitzroy didn’t keep me apprised of his war work, so I could hardly expect he would brief me on what my mother was doing. I had assumed she was staying with my father permanently at White Orchards. But then, I was beginning to question many of my assumptions. The questions Cole, an agent who had also been trained by Fitzroy, had raised about my paternity now seemed ridiculous, and yet also more understandable from someone outside my odd little family. Fitzroy had always been an oddly constant presence in our house, due to my mother’s work as an agent of the Crown, and the alacrity with which our servants obeyed him as he ordered various arrangements, made me realise how dominant in our affairs he must have seemed to any outsider. He rode roughshod over the disapproval of neighbours until they too had come to look on him as a fixture of White Orchards. I could see how Cole had made his mistake. Gossip had always followed my mother and her partner, but her distress at the death of my father was deep and sincere.

During those days my mother would stop in the middle of whatever she was doing, and simply look confused, as if she had suddenly remembered her loss. She would sit down in the nearest seat and within minutes the little bull terrier, Jack, would be in her lap, and she would absently fondle his ears. Our staff were similarly discomposed, but Griffin took charge there.

My mother received guests and checked or approved Griffin’s endless lists. Fitzroy would have dealt with the lists, but my mother begged to be allowed to do something. ‘I want to be so busy I can’t think,’ she said. A book of condolence appeared in the hall, and within the first day it was a third full with the names of tenants and neighbours.

When I finished my report and handed it over, I walked this way and that and got in everyone’s way, trying to help. But they were far too kind to complain. Fitzroy threatened to make me write up more reports if I didn’t find a proper use for myself. Clearly he had decided that being stern with me during my bereavement was best. It wasn’t.

My mother constantly came up to me with an extra shawl in her hands, fearing I was too cold. She sent for Dr Butcher to check my concussion frequently. Griffin, himself once a local doctor, had checked me out as soon as he arrived, and told me not to do anything strenuous, and to rest as much as I could. Dr Butcher said exactly the same. Fitzroy came up to me every now and then, and handed me the end of a leash with Jack attached. ‘Take him for a walk. It’ll do you both good. Besides, this one hasn’t got to know you well yet.’ So Jack and I went for walks in the forest behind the house, and I managed every time to find my way back to the house without getting lost.

Fitzroy said we’d need to discuss matters after the funeral, and I would have to stay and hear the will read the day after that. Then he stalked off to do something somewhere. It was only after he’d gone that I realised he’d made it sound as if he wouldn’t be here then. I had assumed we would return to duty together, not simply because it wasn’t easy to travel around at this time, but because I was under his command.

Two hours before the service I caught both Fitzroy and my mother coming out of her writing room. It occurred to me then, rather like a damp squib of an epiphany, that her writing room was an intelligence station of sorts. ‘How long has that been—?’

‘Shhh!’ said Mother. She was dressed for the funeral in a well-cut black dress that despite its sombreness gave her a certain chicness. ‘I was going to talk t