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This morning my nerves deliver me to Ursula’s door a full ten minutes before our agreed upon earlier time, which I didn’t realize until after I dropped her heavy knocker three times. She answers the door in her nightdress and robe.

“I’m so sorry. I’m early. I can come back later.”

“No.” She yawns and pulls the door open. “I was up much too late last night, and it was chaos this morning. I swear Peter has grown out of every stitch of clothing, and he couldn’t find his shoes. Len took the children early on some errand before school. Come in. I’ll be a few minutes.”

She climbs the stairs, and I can’t believe my luck—I’m all alone and can replace the needle as a surprise. I bolt straight for the gramophone and pull a record out of the bin, selecting Bing Crosby’s “Galway Bay,” with the thought that once I replace the needle, I can surprise her with music too.

The needle fits perfectly. I click it into place and toggle the switch. Nothing happens. I flip it on and off again. Still nothing. I check the wall socket. It’s plugged in. I open the side panel to peer inside with the hope that something will be clearly wrong and can be easily fixed, like a loose plug or a frayed wire. But with one peek I know exactly what’s wrong, and I’m certain it can’t be fixed. That toggle switch will never turn on this gramophone.

It’s not a gramophone—merely the casing of one. Nestled inside sits a wireless radio. A two-way transitional radio. I know this because Grant Ridley, whom I wasted all those weeks with in London, used me as his “storage closet” for a two-way radio he said was a gift for his mum. What mum needs a two-way transitional radio? Not only that, they’re pretty rare things too. The only one I’d seen prior to Grant’s was at the Women’s Voluntary Service offices, and they had a special license from the military to own it. Ultimately, he ended up selling it to a man on the black market—and I ended up breaking up with him.

How on earth does Ursula own one? And why is it hidden?

Noises upstairs draw me back to the present, and with fumbling fingers and a heart racing so fast it flutters, I latch the side shut and whip the record off the player. I barely slide it back into its sleeve and take two steps towards the center of the room, right where Ursula left me, before her foot touches the bottom step.

She gives me a smile, then a quizzical look, and thank goodness, an excuse pops into my brain. “I forgot the bag of ingredients in my basket. Hang on a moment.” I dash back outside and take several gulps of cold air to calm my nerves.

“Are you okay?” She watches me as I return to the parlor. She hasn’t moved from the bottom step.

I carry in my bag of ingredients. “I’m nervous about this cake, but the notices are posted so it’s too late to back out now. If I mess up, though, I’ll need to move. Mrs. Sharpe and Lady Marchmont both said they are coming today.”

The lemon cake comes out beautifully. Perfectly golden. And once I’ve poked little holes with a skewer all across its top, the lemon drizzle soaks into it just as the recipe promised it would. But the perfection is no thanks to me. I was distracted throughout the entire process and made so many mistakes, even five “Easy, Gemma, easy now” couldn’t set me right. Ursula finally threw her hands up.

“Where are you today?”

“I— Nowhere. Here.”

Her eyes narrowed and steel underpinned all the laughter I’ve known these past few weeks, and somehow I wasn’t surprised. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Nerves.”

“Go sit.” She gave me a tiny push towards her kitchen table. I flopped into a chair while she finished mixing the batter.

But now that the cake is resting perfectly on a platter, the tension of that moment has dissipated, and she joins me at the kitchen table with a grin fixed in place. “It’s PC Charles, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Your lack of focus today.”

“Not at—” I cut myself off. I certainly can’t say I’m wondering about her two-way wireless, the real reason for an antenna on top of her shed, and how her stories, her pauses, the steel in her gaze at times, and my every other moment with her are playing through my memory and imagination.

“Yes,” I blurt.

“I figured after two dates and several lunches in the store’s back room he might be quite the distraction.” Ursula laughs. Not the normal, full, good-natured sound I often hear, but something small and almost cynical. The air feels charged once again. “There are no secrets in this village, Gemma. You know that.”

“Aren’t there some?” The question pops out with an edge before I can stop it or at least soften it. It falls between us like an opening gambit in one of our chess games.

She studies me, and I fix my expression into what I hope appears open and blank. But something changed within me when I opened that gramophone. Like that crack in the door, but light no longer pours through. I’m not entirely sure what does; I just know it leaves me unsettled.

She shifts her attention to the lemon cake. “It’s too warm to cover, but it’ll be fine as you ride back to work. Be careful with it.”

I stand. “I’m sorry about today. You did all the work for me.”

“Never mind. It was my pleasure.”

I pick up the cake and carry it into the parlor to retrieve my coat. “I’ll see you at noon?”

“I’ll be there. Have you decided upon a selection of books?”

I feel myself on solid ground. “I’m bringing one from each of the Queens of Crime. I figured mostly women will join, and it might be fun to start with a book written by a woman. And they’re the best. Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Margery Allingham, and Ngaio Marsh. I might gently suggest we choose a Christie as I feel she’s most approachable out of the gate. I want everyone to feel like they can keep up, join in, and all that.”