"But there was a child," I cried. "What of the child? There is no mention of a child."

Aunt Grace murmured, "I should never have let you know. I just thought it would be best."

"I had to know," I cried. "I want to know all about her. And all this time I have been in the dark... ."

I could think of nothing but Francine. I could not shut out the thought of her lying dead in that bed ... murdered. Francine ... so full of life. I could not imagine it. I would rather have believed she had forgotten me, that her life was so full and varied that she had no time to remember a drab little sister. But Francine would never have been like that. The bond between us was too strong and had been forever ... until death parted us. Death. Irrevocable ... violent ... shocking death! Never to see her again! Francine and that handsome young man whom I had met briefly and who had been all that a romantic hero should be—a fitting husband for the most beautiful of girls. But they had lived dangerously of course.

There was no-one to whom I could talk but my grandmother. She had learned of Francine's death recently, for Aunt Grace had told her.

"I should have been told," I cried passionately.

"We should have told you ... in time," she said. "But we knew of your devotion to each other and we thought you were so young. We wanted to wait until your sister had become a remote memory. It would have softened the blow."

"She would never have become a remote memory."

"But it was better, my child, that you should have thought she had forgotten you in the excitement of her new life than that you should know that she was dead ... just at first, that was."

"It happened a year ago."

"Yes, but it was better to wait until now. Grace acted on the spur of the moment. She is a changed woman now. All her life she hesitated... ."

"They say Francine was not married. Grandmother, I know she was."

"Well, my dear, look at it like this. He was someone of very high rank in his country. Marriages are arranged for people like that. If they marry outside the laws ..."

"It says she was his mistress. Francine was his wife. She told me."

"She would tell you that. Of course she would. She thought of herself as his wife."

"She said they were married in church. I've been to the church. We saw it the very day we arrived in England. We went there because we had time to spare when we were waiting for the train at Dover. I remember it well. Francine said at the time it would be a nice church to be married in, and she was."

My grandmother was silent and I went on: "What of the child?" for I could not stop thinking about him.

"He will be taken good care of."

"Where? How?"

"It would have been arranged."

"She was so proud of him. She loved him so much."

My grandmother nodded.

I cried out: "I want to know what happened."

"My dear child, you must forget about it."

"Forget Francine! As if I ever would. I should like to go there ... to find out everything."

"My dear child, you have problems of your own."

I was silent for a moment. The sudden discovery had wiped everything from my mind. My problem did remain though. Even as I sat there, my mind full of pictures of Francine ... ones that I remembered and imaginary ones, chief of all that of a bedroom in a hunting lodge ... I could almost feel Cousin Arthur's flabby hands on me; I could see the bridal suite at Greystone, a dismal room with heavy grey velvet curtains and a high four-poster bed; I could see myself lying there and Cousin Arthur coming to me; I could picture his kneeling by the bed praying God to bless our union before he set about the practical means of bringing it into action. I could never never endure that.

And yet I could not think of that for long. All I could see was Francine lying in that bloodstained bed with her lover dead beside her.

I went to the Grange and looked at it. Sadly I passed the Emms' cottage. I often saw Mrs. Emms hanging out the washing; she seemed to be washing clothes interminably. I supposed she would be, with a large family, and yet they did not give an impression of excessive cleanliness. I stopped and talked to her.

"Never hear from Daise these days," she said. "I often wonder what's happening to her with that there Hans. Well, they go to foreign parts and it seems you've lost them. No news from your sister either?"

I shook my head. I did not want to talk about the tragedy with Mrs. Emms.

Yet I could not stop myself looking at the house. I felt so frustrated. I railed against my youth. Something could and must be done.

Miss Elton had heard from her cousin who was working somewhere in the Midlands as a children's nurse. She said they would shortly be needing a governess and she had spoken for Miss Elton. The position was hers if she could wait for three months when they would be ready to take her.

Miss Elton was settled. She had had an interview with my grandfather when she explained that she believed I would soon not be needing a governess and that she had this offer of a post in three months' time. He graciously commended her wisdom in looking ahead and said he would be very happy to retain her services for another three months when, as she rightly divined, I should no longer be in need of a governess.

There was something irrevocable about that. My grandfather looked complacent. I was sure he thought he would not have the same difficulty with me as he had with my sister.

Then, to my great excitement, there was activity at the Grange. Young Tom Emms told me when he came to help his father in the garden. He sought me out and I was sure Mrs. Emms had ordered him to tell me.

"There's people up at the house," he whispered conspiratorially.

"The Grange!" I cried.

He nodded.

It was all I needed. As soon as the midday meal was over I was off.

Mrs. Emms was waiting for me. When she wasn't hanging up clothes she was in her garden watching.

She was at her door as soon as I approached. "Only the servants, so far," she said.

"I'm going to call," I told her.

She nodded. "I went over to ask about our Daise. I thought she might be there."

"And she's not?"

Mrs. Emms shook her head. "I got quite the cold shoulder. No, Daise wasn't there. Nor was Hans. They're not the same lot as before. Funny way of going on I must say."

I was not going to be put off and I left her and made for the Grange. My heart was beating wildly as I went up the drive. I lifted the gargoyle knocker and the sounds echoed through the house.

At length I heard footsteps coming and a man opened the door.

We stood for a moment looking at each other. He raised his eyes interrogatively and I said: "I have come to call. I am from Greystone Manor."

He said, "Not at home. No-one here."

He was about to shut the door but I had stepped forward so that he could not do so without forcing me out.

"When will the Grafin arrive?" I asked.

He lifted his shoulders.

"Please tell me. I met her some years ago. My name is Philippa Ewell."

He looked at me oddly. "I do not know when they will come. Perhaps not at all. We are here because the house has been left so long. Good day."

I could only step back defeated.

But I was in a fever of impatience. The arrival of the servants had in the past meant that the house would be occupied in due course, and surely someone there would be able to give me some information about Francine.

A strange thing happened soon after my call at the house. There was a man whom I seemed to meet constantly. He was of heavy build with a thick, short neck, and there was a Teutonic look about him which stamped him as a foreigner. I fancied he must be a tourist who was staying at the Three Tuns Inn close to the river, where occasionally people came for the trout fishing. What was strange was that I met him so often. He never spoke to me; in fact he never seemed aware of me. He just seemed to be frequently there.

Miss Elton, whose own future was now secure, was becoming very sympathetic towards me and genuinely anxious on my behalf. The time was passing. In six months I should be seventeen. She knew that I loathed the thought of marrying Cousin Arthur. Yet what alternative had I?

She said, "You should have a plan of action."

"Such as?" I asked.

"You're so listless about yourself. You're obsessed by what happened to your sister. She is dead. You are living and you have to go on living."

"I wish I could go to that place, Bruxenstein. I'm sure there is some mystery to be cleared up."

"It is all simple, really. She was bewitched by him. She went away with him. He promised marriage ..."

"He did marry her. It was in the church we visited once." I was hit by an idea. "Don't they have registers and things in churches? Well, if she was married there ... there would be an account of it, wouldn't there? And wouldn't it be in the church?"

Miss Elton was looking at me intently. "You're right," she said.

"Oh, Miss Elton. I must go to that church. I must see it for myself. If it was there, that record of their marriage ... it would prove part of that report was wrong, wouldn't it?"

Miss Elton was nodding slowly.

"I'm going then ... somehow. Will you come with me?"

She was silent for a while. "Your grandfather would want to know."

"Am I going to be his slave all my life?" I asked.

"Yes, if you don't take some action now."

"I will take action, and my first will be to go to Birley Church to see if there is any record of my sister's marriage."

"And if there is?"

"Then I must do something. It makes a difference, don't you see? I want to find out why my sister was murdered. And there is something else. I want to find her son. What of that little boy? He must be three years old now. Where is he? Who is looking after him? He is Francine's child. Don't you see? I can't just sit here and do nothing."

"I can't see what you can do, apart from prove whether your sister was married or not. And how is that going to help?"

"I'm not sure. But it would ease my mind a little. It will show that she was telling the truth if that record is there. She said she was the Baroness. She called herself Mrs. Fox. One of his names was Fuchs, you see."

"She always was rather frivolous."

"She was the loveliest person I have ever known and I can't bear it."

"Now, don't get upset again. If you're set on going to that place—near Dover, is it? We could go there and back in one day. That makes it easy."

"You'll come with me, Miss Elton."

"I will, of course. You can't tell your grandfather what we are going to do, can you? How would it be if I told him that our lessons have been touching on the ancient churches of England and there is a particularly interesting Norman one near Dover which I should very much like you to see."

"Oh, Miss Elton. You are so good."

"He is inclined to be a little less severe with us now. Perhaps because I shall soon be going and he thinks you are going to be a docile granddaughter and obey his wishes."

"I don't care what he thinks. I want to go to that church and look at the records."

She was right about my grandfather. He graciously agreed to the outing and we set out early in the morning from the station at Preston Carstairs. We could catch the three o'clock train back. It was strange that just as we were getting into the station the mysterious man from the Three Tuns came hurrying onto the train. He did not look at us at all, but the thought crossed my mind that it was strange that he should be there once more—and travelling on the very same train that we were; but I was so excited by the prospect ahead that I had soon dismissed him from my mind. He was very likely on holiday and seeing something of the countryside, and as the town of Dover and its environs were of outstanding historical interest, it was natural that he should wish to visit it.

It was a fairly long journey and to my impatient mood we seemed to chuff along at a very leisurely pace. I looked out at green meadows, oast houses, the ripening hops and the fruit-laden trees of the orchards which were a feature of this part of the country. Everything was green and pleasant, but I was so anxious to reach the church.

As we came into Dover I saw the castle at the top of the hill and the fantastic view of white cliffs and sea; but I could only think of what I was going to find—for I had no doubt that it would be there.