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to.’
    â€˜I’m ever so sorry, Mr Giblett, about the carpet, I mean,’ Tommy stuttered.
    â€˜Oh, that’s all right. It’ll clean.’ Giblett picked up the necklace and tossed it at Mr James who caught it with one hand. ‘On second thought, take that too — you know what to do with it.’
    Tommy was escorted back down to the kitchen without catching sight of the grumpy footman. In fact, the kitchen was quite empty. Must all be in the servant’s hall having their tea, Tommy decided.
    Mr James pulled a chair out for him at the kitchen table and Tommy collapsed into it.
    â€˜Cook usually leaves leftovers in the warming oven after lunch. Let’s have a look-see-daisy.’ He bent down at the range and removed a covered dish, put it atop the workbench, lifted the lid and sniffed. ‘Mmm, roast beef. How does that sound, Tommy my lad?’
    â€˜Tops, Mr James,’ Tommy said, his mouth watering. Fancy, Mr James preparing a meal for him .
    Mr James unfolded an oilcloth and spread it on the table before him. ‘Can’t be making a mess can we, son? Cook would serve me bollocks on a silver plate.’
    Tommy laughed, Mr James was a right old cove. He couldn’t understand how he’d ever been frightened of the man.
    And then Tommy felt something hard and cold jab into the back of his head. He smelled gun oil. He tried to turn but Mr James’s sledgehammer of a hand had clamped itself down onto his shoulder, forcing him to stay rigid in the chair.
    â€˜What . . . what are you on about, Mr James? Are you joshin’ me?’
    â€˜You left a blood trail, Tommy, right to Mr Giblett’s house.’ The voice was as cold and as hard as the pistol barrel stuck into the back of Tommy’s head.
    Tommy’s mouth dried up, he could barely choke out the words. ‘The sleet was washing it away as I walked, I swear it! I’d never lead the rozzers to Mr Giblett’s gaff, honest! Please, sir. I promise I never—
    â€˜Shut up, Tommy.’
    No mess for Cook to clean up, Tommy thought, the instant a fiery pain ripped through the back of his skull.

Chapter Seven
    Margaret Doyle knelt by the bed in Florence’s room. She cut an ethereal figure in the borrowed white nightdress, hands clasped, the room dark, save for the swaying flames in the fireplace.
    Dody hastened her retreat from the doorway, not wishing to disturb the praying woman.
    Her guest made the sign of the cross and let her hands fall to the bed. ‘It’s all right, Doctor,’ she said turning. ‘I’m finished. Please come in. Turn the light on if you wish.’
    Dody flicked the switch. Miss Doyle placed the jewelled crucifix she had been holding on the bedside table and allowed Dody to help her back into her bed.
    â€˜I’m surprised to find you awake at this hour,’ Dody said. ‘Would you like a sleeping draught?’
    â€˜No, thank you, Doctor; I’ll settle, eventually. It’s just that I have so many thoughts swirling about in my head. I feel so very blessed. But for the life of me I cannot imagine why He would choose to bring a sinner such as I back to life. Can it be that He has plans for me? Is it a sign for me to end my wicked ways?’
    Dody smiled. ‘I can’t imagine what wicked ways you are referring to, Miss Doyle.’ Her smile faded when she noticed the sincerity of her patient’s countenance. ‘Well,’ she backtracked, ‘they say we are all made up of good and bad.’
    â€˜Please Doctor, call me Margaret. I’m not one for airs and graces and titles I don’t deserve. But in some people, me included, one characteristic is more dominant, don’t you think?’
    â€˜I suppose so,’ Dody said, wishing for a change of topic. Philosophy was not her strongest subject. Her preference was for proven facts, not matters metaphysical.
    To Dody’s relief, Margaret’s face brightened.