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“Don’t do that.” I flop back. “Not without real evidence—and there isn’t any now. It will be disastrous for you and he’ll only make fun of me. He’ll think I’m merely silly.”

“There is nothing silly about a concussion.”

“Yes, but when you tell him everything I’ve come up with about Ursula, during baking lessons, no less, and the fact I didn’t see who hit me, but I did see lots of papers that are now burned, and Peggy’s already circulated the story that I fell, what’s he going to think other than I’m a very foolish girl?”

Charlie’s jaw muscle flexes, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s because I’ve insulted Chief Wilmot or because I’ve insulted myself.

“You’re not silly or foolish, and you were attacked. That’s real. That’s provable. I’m sorry if it’s not what you want, but I have to talk to him. He needs to know.” Charlie grasps my arm. “And you need to stop. Nothing more. You need to stay away from her.”

“Charlie.” I balk.

“What if something worse happens, Gemma?”

I don’t protest again because I don’t see control or anger in his eyes. I see fear. “If I back off, then you leave it alone too.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Everything I’ve heard about Chief Wilmot is that he’s fair but firm, straight-line, and by the book. Even you said that he was disappointed you hadn’t made quick progress on the Lombard burglary. He wants results, not this fantastical story, and you’ll be marked by it. Word will get out. Sergeant Boyle will make sure of that. And you won’t live it down. Even if Ursula is gone, the story of my outrageous and unsubstantiated suspicions, and that you believed them, will live on. The gossip will live on, and it will grow and ruin your position in the police.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

“You should be.”

“Gemma.” My name comes out on another exasperated sigh, but not one signaling an argument. Rather one of capitulation.

“Okay. We’re both done.” I press on, giving his hand a squeeze. “And if I’m right, she’ll be off to Berlin never to return, and whatever I imagined will be over.”

Charlie’s huff this time conveys annoyance and irritation. He stands over me. “I need to go. I only asked for a couple hours off my shift.” He drops a firm but gentle kiss on my forehead and turns away. “I’ll be back later. You get some rest.”

I reach for his hand again. “Are you okay?”

He turns back, looking more tired and defeated than I’d noticed before. “I don’t like this. Any of it. But I don’t want you hurt, and I can’t think of anything we’ve got to ensure it won’t happen again. So we give in. We give up. And, no, that doesn’t feel good.”

He steps to me again, kisses me on the lips, and walks out.

I lie back on the pillows. Part of me feels as discouraged as he does. Another part soars that he believes me, believes in me. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll not risk his career over whatever I hoped I might accomplish. Peggy is right: There is no proof. If there ever was, it burned in that grate yesterday.

It’s over. Checkmate. Game to Ursula.

Chapter 25

Friday, 24 February 1950

I keep my word to Charlie. I don’t go to Ursula’s house for baking lessons this week. I don’t get into any danger. In fact, I stay home. On Tuesday, I simply sent a note to Ursula saying that I’m ill and left it at that. And, as Mr. Hastings gave me the week off, all I’ve done is sleep, climb from my bed to the armchair, make a bit of food when I’m hungry, then crawl back into bed to sleep some more. For the most part it’s worked. I’m not dizzy any longer and the headaches have gone away.

Which is a good thing too—it’s time to straighten up this place.

Five days shut within my tiny rooms, and there’s rubbish strewn about, plates with half-eaten toast and swipes of jam to be washed, and after what feels like countless hours sleeping, my sheets need washing too. I need washing.

I shift my gaze from my messy room to the messy world outside. The clouds hang low and grey, and a fine rain, which at the moment is turning to sleet, has been blurring my view for the last hour. I’m not disappointed about that though. The weather has been remarkably fine the last three days, and while I used to love this view from above the shop peering across the green, I’ve grown tired of it. Tired of watching Mrs. Russell walk her baby every day at one o’clock in hopes he’ll fall asleep. Tired of watching ancient Mr. Starkey, the postmaster, make his rounds from shop to shop and house to house, checking and rechecking the bundle in his hand when he’s forgotten where he is or whose post he’s holding. And tired of watching Charlie come and go from the constabulary, wave up at me, but then go on with his day without me.

Peggy has been by once, on Tuesday evening, but I was a little worse for wear then. My head throbbed, and I could barely keep up with her questions—what did I see, what did I remember, what did I notice, what proof did I have . . . ?

“Nothing,” I remember telling her. “Let’s let it go like you said we should. It’s over.”

She practically wilted with relief into my only other chair before she started prattling on about a litany of new subjects. She finally left once she ran out of words.

I push myself up from my armchair and start to tidy. I pick up assorted rubbish for the bin, drop clothes into the hamper, and set dishes into the sink. I reach for my handbag, dropped last Monday by my bathroom door, and toss it onto my bed. But—