Abdication A Novel

Chapter SEVENTEEN





Evangeline had been spending a lot more time down at Cuckmere now that circumstances had changed. John Hunt had advised Philip that perhaps Joan would be better off in the nearby excellent cottage hospital where a full complement of nursing staff could assess and note even the tiniest of changes in her condition and Philip, wearied by the length of time it was taking for his wife to recover, had reluctantly agreed. With Joan no longer resident in the house, Evangeline was relieved to think she could stay at Cuckmere without the guilt of avoiding the invalid.

Evangeline’s mother had always said that August was a wicked month and Evangeline was hoping that the monthly characteristic would hold true this year. She felt she could do with a bit of wickedness. Checking the contents of the silver dishes on the sideboard, she placed two sausages, a spoonful of kedgeree, three rashers of bacon and a grilled tomato onto a plate and settled herself down at the head of the Cuckmere dining room table. An envelope addressed to Joan in green ink was sitting next to a basket of scones. Evangeline was surprised to see scones at that time of day and had quietly blessed Cooky for anticipating how they would be just as welcome at the beginning of the day as they always were at teatime.

Evangeline and Cooky were on excellent terms, unlike Evangeline’s shaky relationship with Cooky’s opposite number in the Hamilton Terrace kitchen. That particular liaison had never really recovered from the suggestion that London Cook’s marinade of onion and wine-soaked kidneys might be responsible indirectly for poor Wiggle’s “unfortunate demise,” as the Blunt staff referred to it. London Cook remained adamant that any finger of suspicion pointed against her was quite unjustified and Evangeline had been unable to diffuse London Cook’s claims of false accusation. Evangeline had stressed on numerous occasions that Wiggle had long suffered from a congenital heart complaint and that the “demise” was neither the fault of May nor anything to do with a saucer of offal. But London Cook remained affronted and a frost between the two women had continued to hang in the air well into the balmy summer months.

However, it was all sunshine and sugar between Evangeline and Cooky, an important relationship that Evangeline took trouble to preserve. Cooky, a solid monarchist, had been impressed by Miss Nettlefold’s friendships in high places and as a result showed the American visitor an extra degree of respect. And Cooky had another reason for fostering this happy rapport. It made London Cook jealous. Cooky would flatter Evangeline by referring to Wiggle in altogether human terms, asking about the small dog’s “lineage” and assuming a doleful expression whenever there was cause to mention “the passing on.”

“Mark my words, Miss Nettlefold, Wiggle will be given in heaven the soul he was denied on earth,” Cooky assured Evangeline mysteriously but somehow comfortingly.

This reverence for Evangeline’s feelings complemented Cooky’s genius in the pastry department and cemented their mutual regard. All in all, Evangeline was beginning to prefer life in Sussex to that in London. Philip had begun to ask her for a little help with the running of the household. He had sought her opinion on flowers for the weekends, consulted her on menus, even discussed the composition of guests at one of the recent house parties that he felt professionally compelled to give, despite Joan’s incapacity. Evangeline soon forgot last week’s regrettable occurrence when the maid had walked into her bedroom just when she was hiding the shards of an eighteenth-century French vase beneath the chocolate wrappers in her wastepaper basket. That day Wallis had cancelled an invitation to a formal dinner at Bryanston Court and Evangeline had demonstrated her disappointment by throwing the pretty object at the fireplace.

Now at last she had the chance to host dinner parties of her own. Last Saturday Evangeline had taken Joan’s place at one end of the dining room table as proxy hostess for her godmother, and afterwards Philip had gone so far as to say that he did not know quite how he would manage without Evangeline’s help.

“Thank you, Philip,” she said, risking a small kiss of gratitude on Philip’s cheek. “That means a great deal to me.”

As a result of her unexpected promotion, Evangeline was enjoying a new social confidence. She felt needed. When arranging the dinnerparty placement by pinning miniature handwritten name flags onto a leather-covered corkboard imprinted with the outline of a table, she positioned herself between the guest of honour—the director-general of the BBC, Sir John Reith—and the mayor of Eastbourne.

Ever since Evangeline’s arrival in England, she had found dinner parties something of an ordeal. The British adhered fiercely to the etiquette of having equal numbers of each gender around a dining table although the rule was treated with laxity by the Blunts. Even so, women guests entering the dining room either at Hamilton Terrace or Cuckmere Park would raise an eyebrow when they saw that their name card had been put next to that of Evangeline; her single status invariably threw the numbers out of kilter. In London the search for a spare, single man was less of a challenge. Several distinguished individuals, mostly confirmed bachelors, were happy to fill the role. The choice in the country was more limited and had become an even greater problem for the Blunts since the Cuckmere vicar’s announcement that he would no longer be available for that purpose. His wife was so fed up at being left at home that she had threatened to stop doing the church flowers.

The day before the dinner, Sir John’s secretary had telephoned to say he would be coming alone, and even though Bettina had already been persuaded to come down to Cuckmere on one of her rare visits, Evangeline and Philip found themselves a woman short. At the last minute the headmistress of the village school had been asked to occupy the spare chair between Rupert and the senior librarian from the London Library, who was in residence cataloguing Sir Philip’s books.

“Do you think Miss Dobbs will have the right clothes?” Philip asked Evangeline at teatime. He was uncharacteristically nervous, his uncertainties about such matters no longer eased by his wife’s reassurances. “I hope she wears something other than those moth-eaten trousers, and remembers to brush that chewed hair. Honestly, sometimes she looks more like a Mr. than a Miss.”

Evangeline was too preoccupied with thoughts about her own gown to be much interested in Miss Dobbs’s dress sense.

“Between us,” Philip continued, “I have instructed Mrs. Cage that Miss Dobbs is not to be given too much wine. You never know when tongues unaccustomed to alcohol may run away with themselves, do you?”

Evangeline finally gave Philip her attention.

“I think you have nothing to worry about, my dear. I am certain the evening will go with a swing. And Miss Dobbs may surprise us as a marvellous addition to the table. Don’t they say teachers and librarians go together like …” Evangeline sought for a comparison, “… like a spoon and fork, or toast and marmalade? And now, if you will excuse me?”

And after giving him what was threatening to become a habitual peck on the cheek, Evangeline headed upstairs to begin the preparations for her evening toilette. Philip made sure she was out of sight before looking in the mirror and touching the spot where Evangeline’s lipstick had left an imprint the colour of a holly berry. As he wiped his cheek with his handkerchief he resolved to treat her with more kindness.


By the time the quails’ eggs had been cleared away, Evangeline was doing her best to fulfil her duties as a hostess. She had succeeded in feigning a rapt interest in the mayor of Eastbourne’s plans for new town housing. It had not been easy. Every time he lifted a forkful of egg to his mouth, the gold mayoral chain would swing forward and hit his plate with a clang. As soon as the plate of shellfish and asparagus was placed in front of her, Evangeline turned her attention to her right in relief. Sir John Reith had barely touched his first course and, as he watched Evangeline helping herself to a generous dollop of hollandaise, he explained that he suffered from “the terrors of a poor Scottish digestion.”

Sir John’s physical indisposition prompted a discussion between them of a case featured in the past few days in the newspapers. Recently a backbench MP representing a Leicestershire constituency had died in puzzling circumstances. Although the MP had been a married man it emerged that he had been having a secret affair with his much younger constituency secretary. For several years he had complained to his cook of breathlessness and had eventually died in some agony. A postmortem revealed that the cumulative effect of small quantities of mercury in his stomach had caused his death. The cook had reported her suspicions to the police and the MP’s wife was arrested on suspicion of poisoning her husband.

“I would conclude several things from the case,” Sir John said, rubbing his stomach. “First of all, infidelity is not a good idea. Secondly, murder is hard to get away with. And thirdly, make sure all poisons are hidden from would-be assassins.”

His lack of interest in food freed up Sir John’s attention, allowing him to concentrate on his companion as she surprised him with a thorough knowledge of the differing strengths and weaknesses of various poisons.

“We had a swell teacher at my school back home in Baltimore,” Evangeline told him. “Professor Meredith had a long beard and my favourite lessons were the ones with him in the chemistry lab. Once his beard caught fire in my friend Wallis’s Bunsen burner, although I managed to put it out with water from the goldfish bowl. After that Professor M. kind of took a shine to me. When the other girls were taking extra tennis classes I would go to the lab and help him experiment on the rats with poison.”

“This is fascinating. Do go on,” Sir John said encouragingly.

“Well, sometimes we used a dab of the Brazilian wandering spider venom and that was very effective: loss of muscle control, paralysis and then death. Then there was cyanide, speediest of all, and strychnine—that took a little longer. My favourite was sarin, a kind of gas that we once tried on a rabbit, the size of a puppy. I’ll never forget it.” Evangeline’s voice had become trancelike at the memory. “The rabbit lay down on its back at the first whiff. The professor never let us test mercury as the process takes too long to take effect. Mind you, strychnine and cyanide can both be concealed in drinks, which makes it dangerous stuff as we all have to drink, don’t we, Sir John?”

Evangeline drew a breath, followed by a swig from her wine glass and allowed herself a moment to assess her solo audience. Sir John was a handsome man about the same age as herself, Evangeline guessed, perhaps a year older, but what a position of power he had reached in the same time span!

Evangeline was enjoying herself. Not since her first few weeks in England had anyone been quite as interested in what she had to say, let alone someone who was such a someone. Julian, for example, never seemed to listen to her. Of course, at his age Julian did not have the sophisticated maturity of Sir John. That long-ago encouraging wink before Wallis’s dinner party had proved his interest in her, of course, and it had been her own clumsy behaviour that night that had discouraged him from pursuing those feelings. She was pretty certain that he was not committed to his silly girlfriend Charlotte with her unnecessarily suggestive behaviour. No. Evangeline had no one to blame but herself that no matter how hard she tried to command Julian’s attention he appeared distracted. Come to think of it, he was always wanting to go somewhere in the car, whether it be to see Joan in the hospital or be taken to the station. Not for the first time did she consider how dreary it must be spending so much time travelling about in the car on his own with only the foolishly besotted May for company.

However, in her place at the head of the Cuckmere table, Evangeline was able to put Julian from her mind. She also forgot her frustration of earlier in the evening when the flat-chested, androgynous look, currently so in vogue, had persisted in evading her despite all her efforts with a stretchy crêpe bandage. Sir John’s eyes were directed not at the substantial cleft of her chest but on her mouth and the words that were tumbling from it. He was clearly much more than a pinch-and-tickle man.

“Good gracious,” he said, “you have the makings of a most effective detective! I wouldn’t wonder if you are a fan of Agatha Christie stories or should I say Dashiell Hammett from your side of the ocean? Marvellous book that, The Thin Man, didn’t you think?”

Evangeline would have been happy to pursue the discussion about crime fiction but Sir John seemed keen to return to her account of life at school in Baltimore.

“You must have been one of the most popular girls there,” he observed confidently as he offered her the use of the silver pepper grinder that lay between them.

Evangeline blushed and smiled as prettily as she could. Perhaps it was the new French style of chignon into which Wallis’s hairdresser, Antoine, had cleverly arranged her lighter coloured wig that was captivating Sir John.

“I understand from Philip that you have been acquainted with Mrs. Simpson since your school days,” Sir John was saying, “although you do not appear to have left those days behind very long ago!”

Evangeline found herself a little more forthcoming than she had intended, realising that she had already drained a third—or was it a fourth?—glass of Chablis. She looked across the table to Miss Dobbs, who was performing admirably in her seat between Rupert and the librarian. Rupert was being at his most Etonian-charming, despite Miss Dobbs’s green tie. Evangeline turned back to her own dinner companion.

“We all wonder a little about exactly what is going on there down in the woods at Fort Belvedere,” he was saying, “although it is far for me to pry. What I really want to ask is did anyone ever tell you what a most unusual voice you have? Forgive me my professional interest, but I cannot help but notice a voice. And yours is pure velvet in texture.” Sir John was aligning his unused fish knife and fork in exact parallel with the pudding spoon and fruit knife as he spoke. He was evidently a precise sort of man.

Evangeline was glowing both without and within.

“And if you will not mind a further professional observation?” Sir John continued. “Yours is a voice that asks, one might even say demands to be heard on the wireless.”

“I am not sure I follow you exactly, Sir John,” Evangeline replied eagerly.

“Oh, please let me explain. We British are most interested to hear how you do things on the other side of the Atlantic. And what the audience wants is the truth about a place and its people. Truth. That’s what’s missing from life. The wireless can help fill some of the gaps that the newspapers are unable or even reluctant to address. Even George V was a little sceptical when I first suggested he make a Christmas broadcast to the nation, and it took me nearly ten years to persuade him to sit in front of a microphone to give a seasonal message to the people. Eventually he took to it like a duck to water and for the final four years of his life he didn’t miss one of them. You should consider coming into the broadcasting studios and recording a little about your wonderful country and all the excitements going on over there.”

Evangeline blinked at him, for a moment quite speechless.

“Well I never, Sir John,” she said at last. “No one has ever paid me such a compliment.”

“I promise you I am perfectly sincere about this.” Sir John replied. “Do think about it. Any mistakes or hesitations can be easily changed before the recording goes out on the airwaves. And I warn you, I am an impatient man and I will be looking forward to hearing from you very soon.”

Such talk, Evangeline assured herself, was mere professional flattery, but nonetheless flattery was a most agreeable courtesy.

“You certainly managed to animate Sir John last night,” Philip remarked the next day. “Never seen him so jolly. He can be rather a fusspot. Has to have things just right, nothing out of order. In fact, he is often a curmudgeonly old so-and-so. I do congratulate you, my dear, on taming the beast. You certainly had more success than I did with the Trappist Lady Mayoress. Couldn’t get a word out of her. And as for the librarian’s wife! Give me Miss Dobbs any day. Life and soul she was, except for yourself, my dear, of course.”



The scones were still giving off the heat of the oven and the smell was irresistible. No one else had yet come downstairs and Evangeline helped herself, adding a dollop of butter that was absorbed into the doughy surface. Her mouth was still full when Philip walked in and caught her eyeing the envelope.

“Is that for me?” Philip asked, trying to conceal his irritation, knowing Evangeline received little from the postman other than a forwarded copy of the American magazine Good Housekeeping.

“Oh I am sorry. It’s for Joan, actually, but of course it is for you to open. I was just struck by the unusual colour of the ink.” Evangeline began as a couple of half-chewed sultanas tumbled out of her mouth onto the white tablecloth.

“Not green ink is it?” Philip asked as he turned to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot sitting on the electric hotplate.

“More like emerald, I think you might say,” Evangeline replied examining the envelope more closely.

Philip came over to the table, raised a puzzled eyebrow at the sight of the scones swaddled in their snowy napkin, and took the envelope from Evangeline. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room struck nine times. Philip opened the envelope and read the contents. Only after he had swallowed a mouthful of coffee did he speak.

“Myrtle, damn it. I might have wondered when we would hear from her. And just when things were settling down, what with you here to cheer me up,” this last phrase inserted just in case he had upset his wife’s goddaughter by any earlier brusqueness. God knows Evangeline meant well, even if she got in the way sometimes. The other evening he had run into John Reith in their club. John wanted Philip’s view on a confidential matter. At a recent lunch at Claridge’s a mutual friend, Lady Reading, had suggested John would make a good ambassador to Washington.

“Excellent plan, my dear fellow,” Philip had exclaimed. “Although I sometimes wonder if there are any Americans left over there. They seem to have descended on this country in droves.”

They had both laughed a little at the eccentric ways of Joan’s American goddaughter.

“Expert in poison of all things, so it seems!” John had remarked, adding however that the beauty of her voice was an asset none could deny. Philip had been grateful to share a word with someone else about his houseguest’s strange and often infuriating ways. Worryingly, Evangeline had not spoken of any plans to return home to America and out of loyalty to his poor wife, who was so fond of this large bewigged woman, Philip felt reluctant to raise the subject.

“You know all about Myrtle, Joan’s elder sister, don’t you?” he said to Evangeline at the breakfast table. “Need I expand on the reasons why we always fear the arrival of a communication written in green ink?”

Philip was half smiling but Evangeline could see he was rattled. And from her conversations with Lady Cynthia Asquith she knew why. No one else on this earth was capable of unnerving Joan or Philip to the degree that Myrtle was. Unlike Joan’s younger sister, Grace, whose death and its consequences had at times blighted the spirits of the entire Blunt household, Myrtle had rarely been part of their family life either in general conversation or in bodily presence. Throughout her adulthood Myrtle had demonstrated her supercilious manners. She hated anything that smacked of “modern ways,” especially those adopted by people who should know their place. For example she could not abide “hatches” that linked a kitchen with a dining room.

“What’s the difficulty in carrying the plates through a door, I ask? Oh no. Nowadays people knock a hole in a wall instead and save themselves the effort. Typical newfangled laziness is what I call it.”

The foul-tempered Lady Myrtle Bradley had lived on her own in a tiny village in Yorkshire since her own tragedy of the war years had condemned her to spinsterhood. There had been a fiancé but his position at the controls of one of the new tanks had not protected him from the jagged fragment of shrapnel that had sliced into him from ground level. Joan had never felt her sister to be sufficiently distressed by the loss of Jack. In fact, Joan had always wondered if her sister was capable of feeling anything at all for another human being. An exchange of Christmas cards now formed the extent of the two sisters’ contact with one another. Goodness knows what Myrtle did with herself all day up there in Yorkshire. There had been talk that she was involved with a group of keep-fit fanatics, a current rage in parts of the country. Myrtle had always been an outdoorsy type. In her late twenties, before meeting Jack, she had been one of the first to adopt the bifurcated skirt in order to sit more comfortably astride her bicycle as she pedalled the lanes around their childhood home in Hampshire with a couple of like-minded young women. Her chief reading material consisted of Time and Tide magazine and printed lists of garden bulbs. Joan knew this because Myrtle had once asked Joan to save her any catalogues she no longer had use for at Cuckmere.

“Too tight to take out a subscription herself, you see,” Joan had explained to Vera when she asked her to make sure that any out-of-date gardening publications were sent on up to Lady Myrtle in Yorkshire.

“Certainly, my lady,” Vera had replied, before embarking on quite a correspondence with Lady Myrtle, comparing the fertility levels of the peaty soil in Yorkshire with the chalky earth down on the south coast. Last year this unlikely connection had encouraged Vera to take a few days of her holiday up in Yorkshire. She planned to visit the minster and perhaps call in on Lady Myrtle and make her acquaintance in person.

“Lady Myrtle was most accommodating and we spent a very enjoyable time together in her garden,” Vera reported on her return, her dry upper lip twitching as she spoke.

After Joan suffered her stroke, Philip had written to his sister-in-law. The letter was as friendly as he could make it, but he explained that medical advice cautioned against any new visitors until Joan regained consciousness. Even though Joan had recently been moved to the cottage hospital, a meeting between the sisters at this time would not benefit either Joan or Myrtle. Joan would be oblivious to Myrtle’s presence and the sight of her unresponsive sister would inevitably distress Myrtle.

It was therefore with surprise, alarm and displeasure that the letter in the distinctive green ink indicated that Myrtle would be coming down to Sussex this week. Myrtle fancied a spell near the south coast. She had been feeling a little anaemic of late and thought the sea air might invigorate her. Philip looked up from the letter, lowering his glasses onto the tip of his nose.

“She has no telephone. An unnecessary expense, she thinks. And of course she’s too mean to pay for a telegram. She is breaking her journey by staying in her club at Hyde Park Corner, an all-female establishment if my information serves me correctly. And then she will take the train from Victoria arriving at Polegate station on Friday afternoon. And that’s tomorrow.”

Philip put the letter down, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“She really is the giddy limit, Evangeline. A visit will not be at all convenient or indeed welcome at this time. The children are away in Berlin. I am spending several nights at Chequers in discussion with the PM and am not planning to return until after the weekend.”

Evangeline could feel his anger getting the better of him. She offered him a scone but he waved the basket away.

“Mrs. Cage and Florence leave for Bognor Regis tomorrow,” he continued, his voice rising, “and Hooch is already off for his annual break with his brother up in Holkham. Cooky is going to visit that strange vicar friend of hers in Winchester. Thank God, London Cook is on duty. I suppose I could spare her to come down here for a day or two while I am away but that only leaves the two daily cleaning ladies to hold the Fort at home and May to take Myrtle to and from the hospital.”

“Why not let me stand in?” Evangeline interrupted. “Explain to Myrtle that you are busy this weekend. It’s the truth, after all.”

Putting his glasses back on, Philip looked doubtfully at Evangeline.

“Trust me, Philip. I assure you May and I can manage Myrtle together. Don’t bother London Cook. May is perfectly capable of preparing the odd dish or two; she learned how on that sugary island of hers. Something that involves beans and rice I believe, and I daresay I could try and lend her a hand. What do you say?”

Philip looked at her, his cheeks doing that curious nervous thing of puffing in and out that she had seen him do when he was about to interview Rupert about some misdemeanour or was preparing for a difficult talk with a senior politician. The cheek puffing was Joan’s habit too. Strange how husbands and wives picked up each other’s little ticks.

“Well I don’t know. I mean I suppose it is an idea. Could you really manage? I mean Myrtle may well be more than even you can chew, if you get my meaning,” he added, feeling an explanation for the phrase might be called for.

Evangeline was insistent. “I have heard she can be a handful but I have handled more than one difficult woman in my time, believe me.”

“Well, you are certainly confident, I will say that for you,” said Philip, his acquiescence to the plan implicit in his air of relieved gratitude.

Evangeline took a bite from a tepid scone, filtering her words though flour-smeared lips. “After all that you and Joan have done for me, it is pleasure to be able to help.” And in a gesture that demonstrated her new sense of purpose Evangeline picked up the small brass hand bell that lay at Philip’s place and rang it.

A moment later Cooky put her head round the door.

“Could you be so kind as to find Miss May please and ask her to come in for a moment?”

Philip excused himself to get ready for Chequers and the smile on Evangeline’s face remained long after he had left the room. If she could not be appreciated by either Wallis or Julian then at least the kindly husband of her poor godmother understood her worth.


On the afternoon of Myrtle’s arrival things had not quite gone to plan. A taxi had been waiting at the front door when May returned from taking Sir Philip to Chequers, packed tight with Mrs. Cage and Florence’s holiday luggage, including the red bucket and spade that May had bought Florence from the little stand in the Cuckmere post office a few days earlier.

Evangeline had gone with May to post a card to her brother in Baltimore and meeting Mrs. Jenkins for the first time had been taken aback by the postmistress’s remark about May having a touch of the tar brush about her. May had ignored Mrs. Jenkins and bustled Evangeline out of the post office but not quickly enough to prevent her from hearing a comment about large sunhats failing to disguise overweight women.

Florence had been in a foul mood for a week, despite being allowed to wear shorts for the first time that summer. Shorts were her favourite article of clothing, their appearance from the drawer proving that the school term had finally come to an end. But Florence announced she hated making sandcastles so what was the point of the bucket? Sandcastles were for boys or sissies. And anyway there was almost no sand at all on Pagham Beach. It was covered in nasty pebbles. She had hated the pebbles last year and was certainly going to hate them again this time.

Everyone had noticed how Florence had recently been hanging around the kitchen, watching Cooky make junket. Florence had always made her hatred of junket clear, the slimy consistency reminding her that the only time she was forced to eat it was when she was ill. A freshly made bowl of the slippery pudding had become a familiar sight in the Cuckmere kitchen since Lady Joan’s illness and despite Lady Joan’s recent absence in hospital, Cooky had continued to make quantities of the stuff just in case her ladyship returned at short notice. On the day before her departure on holiday Florence had been helping herself from Cooky’s mixing bowl. It was as if she wished to behave in a manner as contrary to her true self as possible.

Mrs. Cage had already issued her daughter with a warning that if she did not pull herself together she would remove Florence’s swimsuit from the suitcase and there would be no swimming at Pagham. There were girls who would give their ruddy eyeteeth to be taken on holiday, Mrs. Cage told her sharply. Florence didn’t know what a lucky girl she was. This reprimand resulted in a sullen look and a sharp kick of the green baize-covered door. Florence’s sulky restlessness continued right up until the moment of departure when May stood by the taxi to see them off.

“Have a lovely time, darling,” she said, bending down to kiss Florence, whose curly hair was for once free of restraining elastic bands and ribbons. “Enjoy the swimming, won’t you?”

Florence looked down at the driveway, refusing to catch May’s eye. Threaded through the loops of Florence’s shorts was a belt with an unusual but somehow familiar buckle, marked with a circle and a line like a pictorial flash of lightning inscribed through the centre of it.

“What a lovely belt!” May said. “Is it your special holiday belt?”

But Florence said nothing, and with a low-slung wave of her hand got into the car beside her mother looking miserable.

May went to her room to change into her chauffeur’s uniform. On her pillow was an envelope containing a photograph. The note that accompanied it was short.

“This is where I have got to go, again.”

May picked up the photograph. Florence, looking a little younger than she had a few moments ago, was standing on a pebbled beach surrounded by a group of smiling women dressed in black. Florence was wearing her shorts and the unusual belt was looped through the waistband of her shorts. May turned the picture over. “Pagham, 1935” was written in pencil on the back. She looked back at the picture, studying it closely. All at once she recognised the symbol on Florence’s belt. She had seen the same one on the Blackshirt belts at Mosley’s meeting in Oxford’s town hall. May put the picture in her trouser pocket and went down to the garage to fetch the car. For a moment she considered showing the photograph to Mr. Hooch. And then she remembered his response to Sir Oswald Mosley’s visit to Cuckmere and decided against the idea.

May and Evangeline arrived on the platform at Polegate just in time to see the train from London draw into the station. It had been Evangeline’s suggestion that they face Myrtle together from the beginning to the end of her visit, although it did not seem quite right to May. The proper thing would have been for May to meet Lady Myrtle in her capacity as chauffeur and for Miss Nettlefold to stay behind to greet Lady Myrtle as the acting lady of the house. However, Miss Nettlefold had insisted on coming to the station.

“It’s the sort of things friends do together,” she had said firmly.

The tall woman who came towards them with the same lengthy strides as Lady Joan was unmistakably a Bradley. But the similarity in carriage between the two sisters was not replicated in their choice of dress. Instead of the elegant silk and wool femininity of the woman who lay in a coma in a nearby hospital, here was a figure dressed for an afternoon on horseback or for a spot of weeding, in her tweed jacket, knee breeches and sturdy brown lace-up boots. With a copy of Time and Tide magazine tucked under her arm, in one hand Lady Myrtle held a thick walking stick and a metal birdcage in the other.

“Nice suit,” was her opening remark to May as her eyes travelled the length of May’s willowy body. “Glad to see you take your professional duties seriously. And who on earth are you?”

Myrtle’s deep voice was directed at Evangeline and had a strong hint of the northern accent that May had heard used by the sailors on the sugar consignment ship to Liverpool.

“I am Evangeline Nettlefold, your sister’s goddaughter from America,” Evangeline began.

“Oh yes. The overweight charity case.” Myrtle spoke in short truncated sentences as if she was economising within a telegram. “Well, make yourselves useful. The reading material. Remove it, please. Now,” she said, indicating to May that she expected her to retrieve the magazine from beneath her armpit. “Difficult business with my sister. Mind you, hardly ever see her. What a chatterbox she is. Relief to know she has shut up for a while.” And then, sensing disapproval, she rather surprisingly corrected herself. “Mustn’t speak ill of the ill, I suppose.”

In no time they reached the long driveway up to the house.

“Not a bad place. Typical of Philip not to be here to show me round. Hasn’t turned up to see me for years. And no sign of that stuck-up nephew of mine or his idiotic sister? Some things to be grateful for, I suppose. Hand me Dorothea,” Lady Myrtle said, indicating the birdcage on the backseat. “Don’t want her gnawing at the bars,” she added as she strode through the front door.

The canary was tossed from one side of the cage to the other, and May feared for its well-being within its hurdy-gurdy transport. Inside the hall Evangeline disappeared for a moment, only to reappear breathing heavily and pushing a trolley across the uneven flagstones. When Mrs. Cage was at home, the trolley was only used in the passages behind the kitchen baize door. But in the housekeeper’s absence Evangeline had laid it with cups and saucers on the upper level and a large cake on the bottom shelf and brought it upstairs.

“Good gracious,” cried the visitor. “A hostess trolley? Whatever next? Permission to dunk pieces of cake in the tea, I suppose.”

However she declared herself satisfied with the chocolate cake that Cooky had baked before her departure, and ate two slices before asking to be shown the way to the garden.

“Would you like May to take you over to the hospital to see Joan?” Evangeline asked. “It’s only a mile down the road.”

“No, thank you very much. That particular engagement can wait a while,” Myrtle replied. “It’s not as if my sister’s going anywhere, is it? No, I am going out to the garden. It’s no good waiting around inside a stuffy house all day. I will see you later.”

Lady Myrtle walked onto the terrace, leaving Evangeline and May staring after her. She seemed to know her way through the garden as if she had studied a plan of it. Ducking under the rose arch, and turning left at the red-tiled dovecot, she strode off in the direction of the pond and disappeared from sight. Inside the house, Dorothea began to weep in her stuffy cage. May longed to open the door of the cage and release her. She could not imagine why Lady Myrtle kept such a bird, unless it was to derive pleasure from its beautiful singing voice, and May doubted whether Dorothea had sung freely for a long time.

Later that evening Evangeline and May waited with minimal enthusiasm for Myrtle’s reappearance. May was grateful she had often watched Rachel prepare her thick tomato soup and roast chicken for the Sabbath meal and now both dishes were sitting warming on the kitchen stove. Evangeline had mixed herself a strong and very dry cocktail in the manner in which she had often observed Wallis employ, coating the inner rim of the glass with vermouth before adding the ice-cold gin and finishing the glass with a slither of lemon and an olive. Half an hour later, Evangeline was halfway through her second drink and there was still no sign of Lady Myrtle. A glance into the dining room laid for two, followed by a check in Myrtle’s bedroom, revealed that she was definitely not in the house. May had run to the end of the garden to see if there was any sign of her but had returned alone. As May passed through the stone hall she saw an envelope sitting on the table marked in green ink. The single sheet of paper was addressed to Evangeline. The message was brief.

“I will be otherwise engaged for dinner this evening. I will see you in the morning.”

Evangeline and May had been puzzled but not concerned. Myrtle seemed like a woman capable of taking care of herself. It was getting late. Evangeline went upstairs to her own bedroom, while May set off along the little lane that led to Mrs. Cage’s house. On her way she passed the small cottage that was home to Vera Borchby. Vera’s lace-up muddy gardening boots were sitting on the porch. The lights were still on; music and what sounded like two very low male voices drifted through the open bedroom window. May hurried home to bed.