“Yes, you must come with us. I am sure that will be the best for you.”

“How can I go home?”

“You’ll have to make a clean breast of it, dear. There’s no help for it.”

“Oh … I couldn’t do that.”

“What then? Stay here? Have you any money?”

“I haven’t bothered much about money. I have a little at the moment. Jacques always seemed to have plenty and he was quite generous. He liked me to buy clothes and things. I still have most of the last lot he gave me. I think he had a private income. I don’t believe he earned much with his paintings. That was one of the reasons I found life in the Latin Quarter so different from what I expected it to be. I’ve spent hardly anything recently. I suppose it was due to this growing resentment against him. Perhaps I had some notion of getting home. I am not sure. My plans are so vague.”

I could not remember how much I had, but I thought it would pay my fare home.

“Never mind,” said Janet. “We’d help, of course. You will, of course, have to leave with us, dear. It’s the only way. You will have to go back to your husband. Perhaps he will forgive you.”

“I couldn’t,” I said.

“But what will you do? You can’t stay with that man. I don’t suppose he’ll want you now he’s got this other one. Then you’ve always got that nice sister of yours—and your mother and father, too. They’ll look after you. I know it’s not nice having to eat humble pie, but sometimes it’s the only way.”

I could see that she was right, and I was wondering where I could work something out.

“Besides,” she went on, “what work could you do here? I can see something terrible happening to you if you stayed. No, you’ve got to come home with us. If you can’t go back to your husband, there are your sister and your parents.”

She was right, of course. The more I thought about it, the more I could see that I would go home with her and Geoffrey and in the meantime I would make a plan.

We talked in this strain until Geoffrey came home.

“We are leaving at the end of the week,” he said.

He listened to my tale of woe and said, of course I must go back with them. I embraced them warmly and said I did not deserve such good friends.

I stayed the night there and the next morning went back to Jacques’s house and packed my clothes. I was hoping to leave without seeing Jacques, but he arrived just as I was about to go.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

I fancied I saw a certain relief in his face.

“As you wish,” he replied.

“I am going home.”

“That will be wise.”

I felt a certain exultation because I felt no love for him now. I just wanted to forget the whole episode. If only he had never come to Cornwall! “The moving finger writes …”

But at least I would be free of him. I would find some way out of this. Violetta would help, as she always had.

“You’ll need money,” he said. “Your fare …”

“I can manage, thank you.”

He looked surprised. Then, characteristically, he made that gesture of lifting his shoulders, which had begun to irritate me.

“I would most happily …”

“No, thank you. Goodbye.”

“Bon voyage.”

And so I left Jacques.

Violetta had once said that feckless people such as I was often seemed to have helpers who arrive at the right moment. So it was with the Baileys. I have often thought since of that happy incident when the book fell from its place on the shelves. What I should have done without the Baileys at that time, I do not know. I shall always be grateful to them—and how fortuitous it was that they should be leaving at that time!

So the first stage was comfortably managed.

There were certain delays on the trains and we were late on reaching Calais. The ferries were uncertain, too.

“It seems,” said Geoffrey, not for the first time, “that we are leaving at the right moment.”

We had to wait three hours for the ferry.

“That will give us time to have a leisurely meal,” said Janet.

We went to a restaurant near the docks and on the way Geoffrey bought a newspaper.

“I wonder if there is any fresh news?” he said as we settled down and ordered the meal. He opened the paper.

“Hitler signs non-aggression pact with Soviet Union. That’s not good. It means he’s about to launch an attack on Poland.”

“And if he does,” said Janet, “that means war. Britain and France won’t allow that.”

“Well, we are on our way home, thank goodness. Oh …” he paused, and went on: “There’s been a murder … a body’s been found in the Rue de Singe.”

“Where?” cried Janet.

“It’s in the Quarter. I remember seeing it once. Odd name. Not a very salubrious spot. The sort of street you’d hesitate to go down after dark. As a matter of fact, I was interested in the name when I saw it and I asked them in the nearby cafe why it was called that. They said a man who had a monkey had lived there. He used to take it into the street and people dropped money into a cap it held out.”

He went on: “The body seems to be of a man … a Monsieur Georges Mansard, a wine merchant from Bordeaux.”

I was staring at Geoffrey.

“What?” I said. “May I see?”

“You look quite shocked, dear,” said Janet.

“I knew him slightly. He used to come to the house now and then. Jacques used to get his wine from him.”

“It’s always a shock when it’s someone you know. You never think these things are going to happen to people you know.”

I felt very shaken and I wondered who could have murdered pleasant, inoffensive Georges Mansard.

It was getting late when we boarded the ferry. Wrapped in a rug, I sat on deck with the Baileys and kept thinking of Georges Mansard’s body lying in that street… dead … shot through the heart, it had said. Who had done that to him, I wondered? Was it a love affair … a jealous husband? It was hard to imagine Georges involved in anything of that sort.

Then my mind was occupied with what I should do when I reached home. I should go direct to London on reaching Dover and I would telephone Caddington, for that would be the most likely place to find Violetta, and I wanted to ask her advice before I spoke to anyone else. It would be a terrible shock to them all to find me returned from the dead, and I needed Violetta’s help as I never had before.

Suppose my mother answered the telephone? Could I speak to her? I could disguise my voice and ask for Violetta. I would beg her to come to see me before I spoke to anyone else. If my mother or father answered the telephone, I should put down the receiver without answering.

We were nearly home now. It was a quiet night. Then I caught a glimpse of the white cliffs of Dover. The curtain was about to rise on a new act in my drama.

The Baileys insisted on my going home with them until I had really made up my mind what I was going to do. They had a pleasant house in a place called Bushey, which had grown out of Watford and was almost an extension of London, for there was mostly a built-up area between it and the capital.

“Convenient for the City,” Geoffrey commented.

Their daughter was there with her husband and I was introduced as a friend they had met in Paris who had had to leave as they had.

I managed, with Janet’s help, to avoid mentioning embarrassing details, and as the imminence of war was on everyone’s mind to such an extent, this was not really difficult.

I spent a rather restless night in the Baileys’ spare room and in the morning had made up my mind that I would telephone Caddington and ask Violetta to come here so that we could plan what had to be done.

I was trembling as I made the call, ready to cut off if anyone but Violetta answered … even my parents … though I should feel very guilty, remembering all the love they had showered on me throughout my life. But I simply could not face them, telling the truth. If I had merely eloped it would have been different, but to have staged my disappearance to make it look like death was a terrible thing to have done.

Yes, I must speak first to Violetta.

A voice came over the line to me. It is amazing what emotions one can feel in the space of a second.

“Caddington Hall,” said the voice, which I recognized as Amy’s, one of the maids. I felt relieved, then fearful that, if I remembered her voice, she might mine, so I assumed a French accent.

“Could I speak please to Mademoiselle Denver … Mademoiselle Violetta.”

“Miss Violetta isn’t here now.”

“Not there?”

“No. She’s gone to Cornwall.”

“Oh … er … thank you very much.”

I rang off.

She was in Cornwall, of course. I had asked her to look after Tristan if I should not be there. That was when the thought had come to me that I should make a poor sort of mother, and that Violetta would be a perfect one. My little Tristan would need her in his life. And indeed he had!

So she was with him. And now what must I do? I must go to Cornwall. I must speak to Violetta. She would help me to decide the best way to get back.

I spent another restless night trying to decide the best way to settle the matter. I would have to tell Violetta the truth, of course, and together we must concoct a scheme. It occurred to me that I might have become unconscious during that early morning swim and been picked up by a fishing boat. I had lost my memory, which I had only just regained. I knew that they all believed me to be dead and my returning to life would be a shock to them. I had to see Violetta first. She would help me break it gently. She will get me out of this, I told myself, as she had so many times before.

I had explained to the Baileys that my sister was in Cornwall and I wanted to break the news to her first, so I should go to her immediately.

I set off the next day. I should arrive in the evening when there were few people about. I must not be recognized. Of course, no one would be expecting to see me, but many of them had known me when I was at Tregarland and I could imagine the stories which would go round if I were seen.

I realized that I could not call at Tregarland where, of course, Violetta would be. She would be looking after Tristan.

Then a wild idea came to me. There was a Mrs. Pardell, who lived on the west side of Poldown on the cliff in a rather isolated spot. She was the mother of Dermot’s first wife and Violetta had struck up a friendship with her when she was trying to find out the truth about my predecessor. Violetta had said she was a blunt and honest North Countrywoman.

I arrived at Poldown, as planned, late in the afternoon. I decided I would go first to Mrs. Pardell. I would tell her that I was afraid to go to Tregarland. If she believed Dermot had murdered his first wife, she would understand the fears the second might feel. I would tell her this tale of loss of memory (I had embellished it a little since I first thought of it), and I would ask her advice. People love to be asked for advice. It makes them feel wise.

This is what I did and, to my tremendous relief and not a little surprise, it worked.

I knocked at her door; she opened it and regarded me suspiciously. Then I saw her expression change. She had recognized me.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “I am not a ghost. I am myself.”

She seemed unable to speak. Then she said: “You’re Mrs. Tregarland … the second one, I mean.”

“That’s right. I lost my memory. I can explain. I’d like to tell you about it. I know I can trust you.”

That was another point. People like to be trusted.

“It is all so difficult,” I went on. “I know you will help me.”

People like to be asked for help, and to give it—if it is not too inconvenient to themselves.

“You’d better come in,” she said.

I could see she was trying to suppress her uneasiness in talking to what might be a ghost, but she was determined to cling to her North Country good sense and have “nowt to do with any of that ghost nonsense.”

She was really rather brave, I thought; I must say her conduct was admirable.

I was taken into a sitting room and seated near a picture of the first Mrs. Tregarland—a handsome girl, with somewhat overripe attractions. A good sort, I thought, easy going, just right to bring people into the inn where she had worked as a barmaid before her marriage. Poor Dermot! He had been very young at the time.

I told my story. I had gone swimming one day, had lost my memory, had been taken into a hospital some way off. I could not remember where or who I was.