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sleepless, far into the night, struggling with bitterness and rage. Their honeymoon had been in Cassis, west along the coast, in those far-off post-war pre-war days.
    Except for the difficulty of so much sex that she had neither wanted nor understood, it had been a golden time. Then there had been those skiing and sailing holidays with a mixture of family and friends. She had excelled at skiing, and was a good sailor. By then, she had learned to pretend about sex – always said it was lovely – and, incurious, he had seemed easily to believe her. Her pregnancies had also provided welcome relief, then the drab, anxious, interminable years of war when she had been incarcerated in Sussex, and he had been seeing to the defence of Hendon Aerodrome until the urgent need for timber had put him back in the firm. It was he who had made clear that their London house, which she had loved so much, had to be sold. It was he who, after the war, when she had thought that a good ordinary life together would at last return, had urged her to find a smaller house, and she had chosen this odd little place with only one upper floor that faced north and south so that only three of the rooms got sun . . . and then abandoned her in it. And for months, years, he had been carrying on with That Woman. Divorce had followed, which her mother would have considered unthinkable. And Louise had known about it and had never told her. Darling Roly, when she had told him, had promised, with tears streaming down his face, that he would never leave her. Teddy and Lydia had been shocked too; they had not been part of the conspiracy. But she saw little of Teddy and virtually nothing of Lydia, who had gone through an acting school and now had a job with a repertory company in the Midlands. It was a weekly rep, which meant, as Lydia explained in one of her rare, sprawling letters, that you performed one play while rehearsing play number two in the mornings, and learning your lines for play number three in bed at night. She said that it was very hard work, but she loved it and, no, she hadn’t the faintest idea when, if ever, she would get a holiday. Villy sent this daughter ten pounds each birthday and Christmas; she was grateful that she could feel natural, untainted love for her.
    After Zoë’s telephone call about the Duchy, she went to tell Miss Milliment, who was in the sunny sitting room seated in her usual chair by the open French windows that looked out onto the garden. Here she read The Times every morning, and did the crossword, which she completed in less than half an hour. Usually she also spoiled The Times for Villy by telling her the stories that had struck her most. This morning, though, she had reverted to the unfortunate Ruth Ellis, arraigned last year for the murder of her lover. ‘I really do think, Viola, that whatever a person has done they should not be executed for it. It is one of our most uncivilised laws, don’t you agree?’
    And Villy, not replying to this (people who murdered other people should surely not be allowed to get away with it), instead told her about the Duchy, ending with a bitter tirade about not being able to go to the funeral because of That Woman.
    ‘But you do not know that she will be there. Might it be possible to find out before you distress yourself so much?’
    ‘Well, Edward will certainly go.’
    ‘Yes, but she may not. Perhaps you could ask Louise or Teddy.’
    ‘I could ask Teddy, I suppose. Rupert has gone down to Home Place, and I don’t suppose anyone will know when the funeral is to be until after the weekend.’
    ‘Viola! My dear, I’m afraid I have a confession to make. I knocked over the cup of tea you so kindly brought me. I was asleep, and I have no idea why, but I thought it was the afternoon, and I was feeling for the switch of my bedside lamp and, of course, if it had been the afternoon, the tea would not have been there. I’m afraid I have not made a very good job of clearing it up, but