"We've had no problems of that sort-thank God-these past twelve months. But yes, we've taken that into account. Far-fetched, perhaps, but we haven't shut our eyes to the possibility. And her husband's family is pushing for an early conclusion. We have none to offer at present."

I thanked him and left. The patient constable led me down the stairs and out to the street. He asked as I stepped out onto the pavement, "Shall I find a cab for you, Miss?"

"I'd like to walk a bit first. Thank you, Constable."

He smiled. "Safe journey home, Miss."

Little did he know that I'd be in France in another four and twenty hours.

I'd come nearly as far as Buckingham Palace, going over what I'd learned from Inspector Herbert. This meeting at Scotland Yard had been distressing. Both because of what I'd seen at the railway station and because I'd had Lieutenant Evanson in my care long enough to be concerned for him and his welfare. Yes, Marjorie Evanson had transgressed in the eyes of society. Sadly, such affairs were more common in the disruption of war. I'd heard patients worry about their wives when letters were slow in arriving, long silences that were never fully explained. They would ask me if I thought there was someone else, and always I'd tried to be reassuring, for fear of a relapse. And I'd had patients confess to me that they'd been unfaithful to wives or sweethearts, afraid to die with that on their conscience.

"Sister, I have to tell someone…"

But I couldn't judge Marjorie Evanson. I knew nothing about her, about what or who had tempted her, how she had come to do what she did. Whether it had anything to do with her death was something Scotland Yard must discover.

I found myself looking at the watch pinned at my shoulder. There was time-just-to find a telephone and put in a call to my parents, to say hello. And then I could take the early train to Portsmouth and stop at Laurel House on my way there.