Lucian said quietly: “It has.”

Dorothy nodded at him approvingly.

“This is what has interested me about this case. Five years ago … that is, fifteen years after Tom Eccles was hanged, a man wrote a letter to the press. He was on his deathbed and for a long time, it seemed, he had been troubled by his conscience. It was just possible that he had been the murderer of Marion Jackson, although he had never known her had never even seen her.”

“Then how could he have been the murderer?” cried Gertie.

“It is very strange and yet … plausible. His name was David Crane.

He was in those woods that day when Marion died. His hobby was pigeon-shooting. His home was in Devonshire and he was on a walking holiday in Yorkshire, going wherever the fancy took him. Sometimes he’d stop at an inn; sometimes he would sleep out of doors if the weather was good enough. He’d fire a shot at a rabbit, pigeon or a hare when the fancy took him. It was a pigeon at this time. He missed and did not think much more about it, but when he realized that it was at that very spot where Marion had been killed, he began to consider.

“Some years later, he returned to the woods; he discovered that exact spot where Marion’s body had been found, and it occurred to him that his shot might well have been the one which killed her. Tom Eccles’s last words were, ” I swear to God I did not kill Marion. ” David Crane could not forget it. He went back again to those woods. He encountered Tom Eccles’s father and talked to him about the case. The old man was sure Tom had not committed the crime. He swore he was not in the woods at that time but alas, he could not prove it. True, Tom possessed the kind of gun from which the shot had been fired, but so did hundreds of others.

“Tom would never have died with a lie on his lips,” declared the old man fervently, and that was when David Crane’s conscience began to trouble him. “

We were all listening intently now. Dorothy was on her favourite topic and she knew how to hold an audience.

Lucian said: “And this old man … what did he do about it?”

“He wrote the letter on his deathbed.”

“He waited till then!”

“He would have reasoned that, if he had come forward, he could not have saved Tom Eccles.”

“No,” said Lucian firmly.

“There was nothing he could have done.”

“What a thing to have on one’s conscience!” said Lawrence.

“I can understand his feelings,” added Lucian.

“I understand absolutely.”

“Imagine,” said Dorothy, ‘a normal sort of person having to ask himself, “Did I kill someone?”

“It must have worried him for years,” said Lucian.

“An innocent man hanged for what he had done.”

“Exactly,” went on Dorothy.

“Poor man, he did not know how to act. He was afraid to come forward and accuse himself, and he would reason there was nothing he could do to save Tom Eccles.”

“He was right. There was no point in bringing up the matter,” suggested Lucian.

“Except, of course, that he would clear Tom Eccles’s name,” reasoned Dorothy.

“He was dead,” said Lucian.

“There was his family,” Lawrence put in.

“For instance, the old father. People don’t like to have murderers in the family, particularly one who has been hanged. People talk about these things.

There’s a slur. “

“Well,” said Dorothy.

“He did nothing until he was on the point of death. Then he wrote that letter to the press. No doubt it cleared his conscience.”

“After all,” said Lawrence, ‘he couldn’t be sure that he had fired the fatal shot. “

“No. That was the point. It was just that he might have. No one will ever know.”

“I suppose that sort of thing has happened before?” asked Lucian.

“It must have,” replied Dorothy.

“But I have never come across it.”

“If it were so, it is a case of accidental killing.”

“All very intriguing,” added Lawrence.

“You can see why Dorothy has this passion.”

The discussion had sobered everyone and the mood had changed. I guessed we were all thinking about that poor young man who had been hanged for a murder he probably had not committed.

After the guests had gone, I sat in the drawing-room with Gertie and the Hysons.

“Well, Aunt Bee,” Gertie was saying, “I think you can congratulate yourself on being a very successful hostess.”

“I was rather dreading that Sir Lucian,” replied Aunt Beatrice with a giggle.

“But he turned out to be ever so easy.”

“You had the right assortment of guests, you clever old thing,” said Gertie.

“Dorothy was good, wasn’t she? She’s a real entertainer.”

“My word, wasn’t that Sir Lucian interested in all that about the murder?” said Aunt Beatrice.

“As much as any of us, I’d say.”

A week after the dinner-party, I was surprised to receive a letter from Lady Crompton.

Dear Carmel [she wrote], Lucian has to go away for a few days next week and I should be so pleased if you could come and stay with me. It is always pleasant to talk to you, and when Lucian is here, he does tend to monopolize you.

I thought, if you were agreeable, we might have a quiet time together.

I have so enjoyed your visits and now that I am incapacitated, I do feel a little lonely. I should be so pleased if you could come.

Do not hesitate to say if it is inconvenient. Isabel Crompton.

I was rather intrigued by the idea, and wrote back at once accepting.

Gertie was amused.

“This could mean one of two things,” she prophesied.

“Either you are going to be granted parental approval, or you will be told some ghastly secret which is designed to warn you to keep off the grass.”

“Don’t be so absurdly melodramatic,” I retorted.

“This is just a lonely old lady seeking a little diversion.”

“Oh, isn’t it fun! Life is so amusing.”

“Particularly to people whose wedding-day is looming!”

“Or for those who have a trio of suitors.”

I was met at the station by one of the grooms, and taken to the Grange, where I was warmly welcomed.

“Lucian was so pleased when he heard you were coming. He’s very sorry not to be here. He was telling me about the delightful dinner-party your friends gave. How I wished I could have been there!”

“It was interesting, and so good of the Hysons to give it for my friends.”

“He was telling me about the doctor and his lively sister. They are very good friends of yours, I gather.”

“Oh yes. The doctor was a friend of my father, and then I met him on the ship again when I was coming over.”

“Yes, Lucian has told me.”

Later in the evening, she talked a little about Lucian’s marriage.

“It was unfortunate. So unlike Lucian. This girl, she was not right for him at all. Of course, she was very pretty. I suppose he must have been carried away. Young men do such foolish things. I knew from the moment she came into the house that it would not be a good thing. I wish he could make a sensible marriage now. The name has been in the family for three hundred years. In a family like ours, one feels there are obligations.”

“If Bridget had been a boy …” I said.

“I’m rather glad she’s not. With a mother like that…”

“She seems a very bright and delightful child.”

“Children can be delightful. No, I am glad she is a girl. I wouldn’t have wanted that woman’s child to have inherited. I did wonder whether she was Lucian’s child, you know.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t know. It was all so hurried and wrong from the start. I don’t think he really cared for her. I imagined he was caught up in some way. It was a horrible time. I was most unhappy.”

“Does it distress you to talk of it. Lady Crompton?”

“No, my dear child. I want you to know. He never really cared for her.

There are some things I do not understand. There is something rather secretive about Lucian at times. He used not to be like that. He was such a frank sort of boy, if you know what I mean. So serene. He took everything in his stride. Now he has changed. All of a sudden he became . well, moody. I think introspective is the word . reflective . as though something worried him. I am so glad he enjoys your company. “

“I’m glad to hear it. I enjoy his.”

“And that friend of yours, the doctor … ?”

“Lawrence Emmerson?”

“The one with the clever sister. Lucian wondered about them. I’m not sure whether he likes them or not. The doctor is a bachelor, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Attractive, presentable … dominated by his sister. Is that so?”

“Well, not really dominated. They are very fond of each other, and she looks after him. She gives herself entirely to the task. She is a very strong-minded person. She would tell you what she thought ought to be done, and you’d find that she was right most of the time. She is very practical and really is a wonderful person.”

“And they are obviously great friends of yours.”

“Yes, very good friends.”

“As friendly as Lucian and myself, I suppose?”

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s difficult to make comparisons.”

“Lucian is a good man, you know. That marriage was so wrong. That sort of thing has an effect on people. Nothing would please me more than to see him happy. He ought to be. He has a great capacity for happiness.

But that wretched affair hangs over him. I’d like to see a complete break from the past. It is difficult, because there are always . consequences. “

“Do you mean Bridget?”

“Not so much Bridget. That woman in the nursery.”

“Jemima Cray.”

She nodded.

“While she’s here, we shall never be able to put the past behind us. She’s a constant reminder.”

“I understand that, but this is your house. I suppose if you told her to go, she would have to do so.”

“I would send her straight away and tell her to go, but Lucian won’t hear of it.”

“Why not?”

“Some promise she gave to Laura to stay. She holds that over us, though it isn’t mentioned often. I have said to Lucian, ” Laura is dead. We care for the child. Why do we have to keep that woman here?”

But he says it was Laura’s wish, so the creature stays. I don’t like her at all, but I suppose, because of this deathbed promise . “

“She is very fond of the child, and the child of her.”

“I don’t doubt that. All the same …” She put her hand over mine.

“I think, my dear, that between us, you and I might do something about all this. “

I was astonished, but she smiled at me serenely.

I knew then that, if Lucian asked me to marry him, I should have the whole-hearted approval of Lady Crompton.

I spent the next morning in her company, but she made no further reference to Lucian’s marriage. Instead she showed me some of the tapestry work which she did before it became such a strain on her eyes.

In the afternoon her rheumatism was very painful and, apologizing profusely, she told me she would have to retire to bed and rest. Could I amuse myself ?

I said I could quite happily, and decided to take a walk.

It was inevitable that my footsteps should turn towards Commonwood House. It was the first time since my visits to the Grange that I had been out alone. Had I been, I should probably have found the impulse to take another look at the house irresistible. Now was my chance.

There it was sad and derelict, yet so familiar. Mingling emotions rose in me at the sight of it.

Walk past it, I advised myself. What good will be achieved by going closer? It only saddened me. But when I approached, I found myself turning in at the gate. Just a quick look, I promised myself, and then I would hurry away.

I walked up the drive. I could scarcely see the house for the overgrown shrubs. It had that eerie look of old ruined houses. I could imagine that eyes watched me from the cracked windows. Eyes of those who had once lived there in the past-Mrs. Marline, Miss Carson, the poor, sad doctor.

Go back, I told myself. What point is there? But I went on.

I approached the door. I saw the broken hinge. I stopped myself from pushing the door open and instead walked round the house. I noticed the damp on the walls, the smudges of dust on the windows. I wondered to whom it belonged now? Henry? Why did he leave it like this? Where was Henry now? Lucian did not know. They had lost touch when Henry had gone to Aunt Florence with his sisters.