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looking shaken. ‘You’ll excuse me please, everyone. I’ve just received word that my son has been injured. Sir John didn’t have much information, but it’s a head wound apparently.’
    Dr Elliot moved to the sideboard and poured him a brandy. ‘Here, drink this. How bad is he  . . . did they say?’
    â€˜No  . . . just that he’s being shipped back to England and will spend some time in the City Hospital before he’s sent to a convalescent centre. I’m glad his mother didn’t live to see this.’
    So was Livia. Margaret Sangster had adored her son.
    Sympathetic murmurs filled the room at the thought of this double tragedy. The guests’ condolences were offered again, and they began to drift away, leaving their host with this extra trouble in his life, glad it hadn’t happened to one of theirs, and hoping it never would.
    Livia began to remove the dishes and leftovers, though most of the funeral feast had been consumed. Florence joined her and they soon put the room to rights.
    Just before the Elliot couple left, the doctor said, ‘Don’t give up hope, Henry. If they’re shipping him home there’s a possibility that he’s strong enough to survive the journey. And people do recover from head injuries.’
    â€˜Yes, of course  . . . I’ll go up to London right away  . . . use the Rolls, since there won’t be a train until morning. I’ll be there for him.’
    His gaze went to Rosemary Mortimer and his lids hooded sleepily as he contemplated her, the nature of his relationship close to the surface, despite his shock over his son becoming a casualty. ‘You’d better come too, Mrs Mortimer. I’ll need someone to look after my household while I sort out the legalities of my wife’s estate. My London housekeeper has left my employ.’
    Smug-faced, Rosemary Mortimer left instructions that the house was to be spring-cleaned from top to bottom. ‘I’ll leave you in charge, Livia. That way I’ll know who to blame if the work’s not done to my satisfaction.’
    They watched the couple go, the major at the wheel and Mrs Mortimer by his side, her face snuggled against the blue velvet collar of a coat that had belonged to the late Mrs Sangster.
    â€˜Brazen  . . . the pair of them,’ Florence murmured, for the maid had soon winkled out the household situation. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’
    â€˜Don’t crow too soon. She’ll be back, and I wager there will be a ring on her finger,’ Connie commented gloomily.
    To save any further speculation, Livia began to make plans for the task she’d been left with. ‘We’ll start at the top and work our way down. We’ll clean the main bedrooms first, except for Mrs Sangster’s rooms. We’ll leave them until last  . . .’
    But as soon as the car drove off the three of them held hands and danced around the hall until they were dizzy and delirious with laughter.

Five
    April arrived clad in soft showers, a fluttering of peacock butterflies, wood anemones and primroses. The pond was full of tadpoles, the birds sweetly sang their melodies, and, on high, a watchful hawk circled on silent wings.
    The house had been scrubbed and polished, and Mr Bugg and Florence had washed the windows – one standing on the outside, the other on the inside. There was very little left to do, so they’d put dustsheets over the furniture in the main rooms, and could now relax.
    On the very last day of the month, a letter arrived for Livia.
    â€˜Joseph Anderson and Simon Stone. It’s from a solicitor,’ she whispered, turning it over in her hands. ‘I expect it’s for the major.’
    â€˜Since when has the major’s name been Miss Olivia Carr?’
    â€˜But why would a solicitor be writing to me?’ Fear stabbed her. ‘I hope my sister