'How's Martha?' Helen asked.

'Died two years ago. The thing is, Helen, I must see you. It's a matter of life and death, you could say.' He was racked by coughing. 'My death, actually. Lung cancer. I haven't got long to go.'

'Tony. I'm so sorry.'

He tried to joke. 'So am I. ' There was an urgency in his voice now. 'Helen, my love, you must come and see me. I need to unburden myself of something, something you must hear.'

He was coughing again. She waited until He'd stopped. 'Fine, Tony, fine. Try not to upset yourself. I'll drive down to London this afternoon, stay overnight in town, and be with you as soon as I can in the morning. Is that all right?'

'Wonderful. I'll see you then.' He put down the phone.

She had taken the call in the library. She stood there frowning, slightly agitated, then opened a silver box, took out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter Roger had once given her made from a German shell.

Tony Emsworth. The weak voice, the coughing, had given her a bad shake. She remembered him as a dashing Guards captain, a ladies' man, a bruising rider to hounds. To be reduced to what she had just heard was not pleasant. Intimations of mortality, she thought. Death just round the corner, and there had been enough of that in her life.

But there was another, secret reason, something even Hedley knew nothing about. The odd pain in the chest and arm had given her pause for thought. She'd had a private visit to London recently, a consultation with one of the best doctors in Harley Street, tests and scans at the London Clinic.

It reminded her of a remark Scott Fitzgerald had made about his health: 'I visited a great man's office and emerged with a grave sentence.' Something like that. Her sentence had not been too grave. Heart trouble, of course. Angina. No need to worry, my dear, the professor had said. You'll live for years. Just take the pills and take it easy. No more riding to hounds or anything like that.