‘I must tell you things, Mr Hardy, which ordinarily I wouldn’t tell a soul, not even a close member of the family — if such a person existed.’

I nodded and tried to look discreet, my strong point.

‘My husband and I had only one child, that was a sadness.’ She raised a hand to her pale, dry hair as if saluting the days of her fertility, or infertility. ‘Our daughter, Bettina, was born in 1931, she was married very young, at seventeen years of age. The marriage did not last long, a few years only. Bettina’s husband was a barrister, a very promising man at the time but he turned out to be weak, a drunkard. He was some years older than Bettina.

‘How much older?’

‘Oh, twenty years.’

‘I see.’

I didn’t really. Seventeen-year-old girls don’t usually go for men in their late thirties. They tend to regard us as doddering. Some do of course, but I thought I could smell ‘arrangement’ in this one and her next remark increased the suspicion.

‘My husband took steps to terminate the marriage.’

‘Divorce?’

‘An annulment.’

‘Why did your daughter marry so young?’

She shot me a sharp look. ‘Not for the reason you may be entertaining. Bettina was… well, wild and flighty. She showed an interest in Henry and he seemed steady. We thought marriage might settle her down. She was our only child, we had to protect her.’

‘From what?’

‘From herself.’

It saddened me. ‘From her youth’ she might as well have said. I turned a page of the pad.

‘Tell me about Henry, the husband. What’s his other name?’

‘Brain, Henry Brain… ah, here’s the tea.’

2

Verna Reid wheeled a glass and stainless steel trolley about two feet into the room. Silver pots and jugs gleamed, bone china tinkled. She poured milk and tea, added sugar and brought the cup across.