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conversation that afternoon. Perhaps she should have made things a bit clearer, if only to prevent Fran putting her foot in it. After all, Peter’s mother Millie was almost bound to come up in conversation –
    â€˜How’s your mother, Peter?’ asked Fran, right on cue.
    â€˜As well as can be expected,’ said Peter, smoothly, ‘back at Steeple Farm. I’m sure Libby told you. And now, would you like to order?’
    When Harry and Peter had left them alone with two large menus, Fran gave Libby an apologetic glance.
    â€˜Sorry. Did I upset the atmosphere?’
    â€˜Not at all. You were bound to ask him, it was only good manners. I’d give Susan a miss, though, if I were you.’
    â€˜You mean, don’t ask about her?’
    â€˜Yes. Poor woman. It isn’t her fault, but it tends to be a bit of a thorn in the flesh, if you see what I mean.’
    Fran did see. Ben’s sister Susan would be a reminder of the events stirred up by The Hop Pickers that had led to murder a few months previously.
    â€˜Steer clear of all of it, then,’ said Fran, peering at the menu. ‘Can’t remember, what was Hongo Quesadillas?’
    It hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected, she thought later, as she took a last look at the view from Libby’s spare room window. Much to Fran’s relief, the conversation stayed away from family and murder, and Peter, deep in writing a brand new pantomime for the Oast House Theatre, merely asked a few technical questions regarding length and timing, which caused Libby to go off into paroxysms of lewd laughter. There was no mention of Aunt Eleanor or Barbara and Paul Denver and Fran’s uncomfortable mental investigator had been lulled into somnolence with red onion tart, accompanied by an excellent Sancerre spirited from an unnamed source by the heavenly Harry.
    Unfortunately, the Sancerre had worn off a bit and the mental investigator had woken up. A loop tape in her head repeatedly played the dream, but what made Fran sit down suddenly on the bed with a gasp was the addition of two more faces, as clear as if they stood before her, neither of which had she seen before. As her breathing slowed to normal and her heartbeat stopped sending messages to outlying parts, she realised that it must be her overactive imagination supplying pictures of Barbara and Paul Denver. After all, it could just as easily have thrown up the faces of Nurse Warner, Nurse Redding or Marion Headlam, but she had actually seen them in the flesh. Barbara and Paul were so far still, if not figments, existing only in her imagination.
    Suppressing an almost irresistible desire to go downstairs and top up the Sancerre with a large slug of whisky, Fran climbed into bed and put her head under the pillow.

Chapter Five 1964
    M ARGARET TURNED FROM THE mirror and took a deep breath.
    â€˜Fran, are you ready?’
    Fran appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Yes, Mum.’
    â€˜Let’s have a look at you, then.’ Margaret pulled her daughter further into the room.
    â€˜Socks, Fran? I thought you wanted to wear your new stockings?’
    â€˜The suspenders are uncomfortable, Mum.’ Fran pulled a face. Couldn’t I have a roll-on like yours?’
    â€˜You’re only twelve, darling! I’ve given in on stockings, but that’s as far as it goes.’
    Fran pulled a face. ‘Socks, then. Anyway, they look better with my sandals, don’t they?’
    Margaret looked down at the maroon sandals. Frank had bought them. She looked up hastily, smoothing down her cotton skirt.
    â€˜Of course they do. And you look very nice in that dress, too. Green suits you.’
    Fran stroked the satiny finish of the dress. ‘I like it. Thanks, Mum.’ She reached up and kissed Margaret’s cheek. ‘You’re really clever.’
    â€˜Come on, then. We’ll be late if we’re not careful.’ Margaret picked up her handbag and