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‘You’re so cocksure, aren’t you? Well, others may not be convinced. The proof needs to be found,’ she said in an airy tone. ‘I’m not at all frightened by your threats, you stupid girl. Marry your poor shepherd, live in poverty . . . because that’s where you’ll be. Meanwhile,’ she said, pausing to look around, ‘I shall enjoy having all of this to myself. I’ll sell the business, of course, and then spend some of the proceeds on redecorating and cleaning away the stink of Mae Appleby that I can still smell in every room.’ She laughed again. ‘Am I making your blood boil, Fleur? I do hope so. And look at that poor sod lying there. Gave his all for what? A dead wife, an ungrateful child and—’

‘And a scheming shrew who will get her comeuppance,’ Fleur snarled. ‘Get away from me, Irma. Get away from my father too. Neither of us want you near us.’

‘You can have a little while to say goodbye to your father, Fleur, but then I’d like you to leave. Please don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you.’

‘I’ll be taking him,’ Fleur promised.

‘Go ahead. Good riddance to old rubbish. Henry became a burden long ago.’ Irma turned to leave, looking over her shoulder. ‘Oh, and if you’re looking for his fob watch, don’t bother. I’ve taken it,’ Irma continued. ‘Everything is mine, remember.’ She picked up her large bag. ‘I shall be out for a couple of hours.’

‘When you come home, the police will be waiting,’ Fleur threatened.

‘And I’ve nothing to hide, while you’ve got everything to prove . . . beyond all reasonable doubt.’ Irma chuckled at Fleur unkindly before slamming the door behind her. The clap echoed through the house and took with it Fleur’s rage, whisking it away to leave her feeling empty. She doubled over as though in pain, and the action seemed to permit a great hole to open within and grief to suddenly flood it. It was like oil, thick and slick, that had been lit by the burn of her anger before it left. The viscous grief, flaming as it did, gave off no light, only heat, which moved slowly through her body, searing her heart, her cheeks and flaming at her neck, forcing her to tear off her coat and suck in gasps of air as though she were drowning. Suddenly it hurt to breathe, and her gasping only gave more oxygen to the invisible flames. Finally tears arrived and they were shed for several, long and gulping minutes over her father. Not her touch nor her weeping kisses could warm the lifeless body. He was gone.

She rose at last to open the window and usher his spirit to a happier place, and as she did so she saw two policemen arrive. She returned to her father and laid a watery kiss on his forehead. Her sense of loss was so great in this moment that she didn’t want to confront it. It was as though she’d found a way to withdraw from the edges of herself so that nothing touched, not even her skin – and not grief any more. She would open herself up to all the pain soon, but Fleur urged herself to hold tight inside and to tense her body to stay strong, from the muscles in her face that would not betray her sorrow, to the muscles in her legs that would hold her upright and display no sign of weakness. Irma needed to see her strength, that she wouldn’t be cowed by vicious words or threats, or her deliberate baiting.

‘Trust me now, Dad,’ Fleur whispered and left the room to greet the police as his spirit flew from her.

Irma took a pot of tea in a local café while she pondered her next move. Her plan was now in motion and how Fleur had reacted was no surprise. She had anticipated that Fleur would reject the doctor’s summary and demand that the police be called. She was not frightened of the coroner being involved, but there were two elements that she didn’t have control over.

The first was the Coglins. Hopefully Bert’s greed would keep his mouth tightly shut and her threats would keep his loose cannon of a son under lock and key for a while. But the second, and more concerning, was Tom Catchlove. He had the power to exert influence over Fleur. She could already see that her stepdaughter had lost her head to this country lad. It was a hurdle but not insurmountable. She had wanted Jimmy for a son-in-law because it would have made it easier to control everything, to keep running the business and earning, but if it wasn’t to be then she could sell up and move on, living off the proceeds.

An idea had been forming while she had watched Fleur rage at her. Her stepdaughter had appeared almost unbalanced in her grief, but that wasn’t all there was to the powerful emotional outburst. Irma had always held the opinion that no one should underestimate her smart mind. She may not be educated to someone like Fleur’s standard but she was naturally bright and gifted with an agile brain that possessed cunning. She felt cleverer than most of the people walking around.

What she had seen in Fleur was love . . . but not for Henry; that was an old love, a given one, part of the fabric of her life. No, it was this Tom Catchlove. Even his surname spoke of it. He’d caught Fleur’s attention in a way no other man ever had and she had fallen for him . . . love was blazing in Fleur’s body, and lust too, apparently. Irma smirked.

Irma’s cunning crocodile mind, with its patient way of turning over a situation, considered this new love. To Fleur it no doubt felt so fresh and novel. She was in the height of her excitement at finding someone to love and return that love; her body was probably still tingling from his touch. This was a woman who had spent years without romantic involvement and now suddenly it was here and it likely felt glorious. Irma wondered how she might use all of this excitement against Fleur. She was likely still feeling untarnished, since presumably no one else knew about their tryst.

Irma rummaged in her bag and withdrew one of the Appleby notelets that Henry had had printed. She liked them because they were plain: a parchment-coloured card, tent-folded. It had the thinnest of black margins and on its back in neat, unobtrusive script was the Appleby name and address. He had used them to send thankyou notes to people within the industry and to pen a quick card to a grieving family a month or so after their funeral with Appleby’s. Henry had had bold penmanship and he wrote in shiny black ink from an old fountain pen his father had given him.

Irma knew Fleur was following in his footsteps, copying her father’s ways, and that she too wrote in black ink on these notes. Letting her mind dive freely, Irma refreshed her cup from the pot of still hot tea and withdrew a pen she kept filled with black Quink in case she ever wished to send a note from Appleby’s and have it look official. She’d used this ruse from time to time to get orders hurried through or to have goods she wanted for her own end put through to Henry’s business account.

She took a slow breath, frowned and began writing.

My darling Tom,

My body is still remembering everything about our night . . . your touch, your kisses, your whispers of love. But night has become day, sweet Tom, and reality has found me.

I have to tell you that I’ve returned home to discover, much to my anguish, that my father passed away during the night. I feel inconsolable that while we were making love, he was taking his last breath on this earth and I was not there to hold his hand, to comfort him or to farewell him. I came home this morning to his cold body, and the doctor and Irma making arrangements without me.

I’m not angry at you. I am not blaming you. But of course it’s natural that when I think of you now, I think of my father’s death. And that’s no grounds for a happy future. I am bitter at myself for being the worst sort of daughter. I knew he was ailing, I knew how weak he was, and yet I put my own needs above those of the only man I’ve loved.

I care for you, Tom, and I wish it could be different but before this goes too much further, I think I must be honest that despite what we shared yesterday, we can never be a couple.

You see, there’s something I must tell you – should have told you before this but I couldn’t. I was carried away by our shared pleasure in each other. Darling Tom, you need to know that I am already pregnant with another man’s child.

Irma didn’t know she was going to write that and allowed herself a shiver of delight at how cunning she could be. She sipped her cooling tea, a small smile twitching and continued.

Lying in your arms last night, I allowed myself to believe that I could pretend the baby was yours. You could never know and I had almost convinced myself that I could live with that, but I cannot. You’re a very decent man who deserves better, and so I must walk away from us.

I am asking you now to respect my wishes. Walk away as well. I want this baby, and while Jimmy Coglin is not the man I wish to marry, I think deep down he will enjoy being a father and become a better man for it. I don’t want this child of mine to grow up with a different father than his own as I did.

Irma wanted to laugh out loud now at her sneakiness. Time to finish the heartfelt note. She blew on the ink and took a second card.

We’ll remember each other from afar, Tom, but we shall never be together. Go home. Go back north where you belong, I beg you. Please do not come for me. Respect that I am grieving too, and our family needs some time. Please do not write to me or telephone me. Don’t hope I will ever come looking for you. I will not. Yesterday was wonderful and I will never forget being with you. But I have made the right decision to marry Jimmy and not allow my child to be labelled an orphan or rejected by their mother or father. They will be loved.

Yours, Fleur x

Irma read it back, then placed the cards in an envelope. It was a masterpiece. She struggled out of the cramped seat, paid for her tea and allowed herself a taxi up to the Alberton Hotel, where she stood on the pavement a while and waited for the right person.