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mixture of solicitude and curiosity. Even if he employed a more ambiguous phrase, such as ‘We will have to talk about it later’, he risked a rumour running round the party that there was a problem of some kind, perhaps with the hotel they were heading for in Scarborough. Whispers of that kind, even when they subsequently proved to be incorrect, ruffled the surface of the smooth organization on which he prided himself; nothing but the view across the valley must be allowed to distract the ladies from their lunch in the Jane Eyre Tea Rooms.
    So when Jo babbled out the reason for her call, Marcus said in the most casual voice he could muster, ‘I’m afraid you have caught me at a very bad moment. I’m just about to lead our party into the Brontë parsonage.’
    Jo had babbled some more and begun to cry, but Marcus, still wearing an expression of benevolent amusement, while pressing the phone painfully hard against his ear to prevent the smallest sound from reaching the ladies standing nearest, waited until she paused for breath, then said, ‘Yes, of course. Why don’t we talk about it some other time?’ He rang off, and ostentatiously switched off his phone before replacing it in his jacket pocket, then turned back to the group with an apologetic smile. ‘The marvels of modern communication. A friend who didn’t know my schedule. So sorry, everyone – now back to the parsonage … When the family first arrived in 1820 …’
    Naturally the episode had upset him, in spite of his apparent lack of concern. He might be cross with Jo for calling, but he did not like to think of her alone and upset. As his charges dispersed around the parsonage, exclaiming – as first-time visitors inevitably did – on the smallness of the interior, Marcus’s concentration ebbed in the face of a guilty sensation that he had let Jo down.
    He wondered if she would contact the police straight away, and wished there had been a way of telling her to wait until he got home, because then at least he could give her some moral support. On the last occasion when they had taken a missive of this kind to the police, events had taken a rather unaccountable turn. He had been invited into an interview room by a CID man – a young chap full of false friendliness, accompanied by a stony-faced female colleague who, so far as Marcus could remember, had never uttered a word the whole time.
    Just somewhere a bit more private to wait, the young policeman said, while Jo went in a separate room through the formalities of making a statement about receiving the card. Marcus had felt uneasy, but was uncertain how to refuse – and even more uncertain of what might be construed from a refusal. It had not been an interrogation – hardly even an interview – but after chatting in pretty general terms for a few minutes, the CID man had suddenly asked Marcus whether it had ever occurred to him that his wife might be sending the cards to herself.
    ‘And why on earth should she do that?’ Marcus asked, barely able to disguise his annoyance.
    ‘I don’t know, sir.’ The guy was very smooth. ‘To draw attention to herself, maybe? Perhaps to get some sympathy?’
    ‘And what particular aspect of my wife’s situation do you imagine she might want to get sympathy about, apart from the fact that her child was abducted some years ago and has never been seen since?’ Marcus’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Give me one good reason for suspecting that these communications aren’t either the genuine article or the work of a hoaxer. Better still, give me one good reason for suspecting that my wife is behind them.’
    The policeman’s expression remained neutral, but he was watching Marcus closely and, to his intense embarrassment, Marcus could feel not only that his face had reddened, but also that he had started to sweat. He could see why the police were sceptical about the postcards. Every major enquiry attracted its dedicated loonies. There was nothing