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lamp-post on the opposite pavement, a slight and motionless figure staring straight up at me as I felt sure she had been staring up at the window before I had even reached it, a figure in mourning black whom I knew well. What had brought her there I could only guess, what she was thinking I did not dare to. There was something of doubt as well as scrutiny in her gaze – and something also of hope. Half a minute of silent appraisal passed that seemed to compress within it all the weeks of her absence. Then I signalled that I would come down and raced to the door.
    She was standing on my side of the road by the time I reached the front steps of the block. At closer range, her anguish was unmistakable. Her dark eyes scoured my face, her lips quivered uncertainly. As I descended towards her, she moved back a pace. There must be space between us, her expression conveyed: there must be a frontier across which the first tokens could be exchanged.
    ‘I didn’t know you were in England,’ I said after another silent interval.
    ‘Nobody knows I am.’ Her voice was breathless and strained. ‘Except Lizzie.’
    ‘Has Lizzie heard—’
    ‘About her brother? Oh yes. We had a telegram from Victor just before sailing. I’ve sent her to see her family in Ross.’
    ‘Then you’re alone?’
    ‘Yes. We docked this afternoon. Five days earlier than I told Victor to expect us.’
    ‘You … over-estimated the passage?’
    ‘No, Geoffrey. I did not over-estimate the passage.’
    The implications of her remark assailed me. What had happened? What did she mean? ‘Won’t you come in?’ I stumbled.
    ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, I think I hoped you wouldn’t be at home.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because then I’d have to return to Hereford straightaway.’
    ‘And you don’t want to?’
    In her eyes I had my answer. She walked up the steps and halted beside me. Now her gaze was averted, her voice scarcely rising above a whisper. ‘I told my mother, and my father before he died, that life with Victor is a torment to me, that I can never love him, that he can never make me happy. I pleaded with them for help, for advice, for refuge at the very least.’
    ‘What did they say?’
    ‘They spoke of duty. They spoke of
their
honour and
my
obligations.’
    ‘As
you
did, when last we met.’
    ‘Yes.’ Now she looked at me, some dart of lamplight catching her eyes beneath the brim of her hat. ‘But that was before I watched my father die and saw what his code amounted to: a dutiful death and an honourable grave. They’re not enough, Geoffrey, not enough for me.’
    ‘Consuela—’
    ‘Tell me to go away if you like. Tell me to go back to my hotel and take the first train to Hereford tomorrow. You’d only be following the advice I gave you. And it was good advice, it really was.’
    ‘Was it? I’m not sure. And neither are you.’
    ‘But we must be sure, mustn’t we? One way or the other.’
    The truth was that certainty lay beyond our grasp. But neither of us wanted to admit as much, dallying as we were with more unpredictable futures than there were stars in the sky above our heads. ‘Come inside, Consuela,’ I urged. ‘We can—’
    As on that last occasion, three months before in Hereford, she silenced me with one hand laid softly against my mouth. But this time she said nothing and, this time, she had removed her glove. I felt the touch of her bare fingers on my lips more intensely, it seemed, than I would have felt even a kiss. Then I reached up, took her hand in mine and led her up the remaining steps towards the door.
    HEREFORD POISONING CASE
    Mrs Consuela Caswell was yesterday committed for trial on charges of murder and attempted murder at the conclusion of a five-day hearing at Hereford magistrates’ court. Mr Hebthorpe, prosecuting counsel, summed up the Crown’s case in a two-hour speech in which he reviewed all the evidence and contended that it represented the very strongest
prima facie
case against Mrs Caswell.