Gwendoline was called upon to explain what she knew of Sir Strickland’s business practices, of the farm management, and the abuse of his position as Ministry of Agriculture regional officer.

“He runs a two-book account system. As he is the regional officer, he can make sure that the Ministry of Agriculture checks are done by his personal assistants. He signs off on his own farms, knowing that they’re breaking the rules.” Her hands went to the book. “And this is the accounts book containing evidence of produce going to the black marketeers as well as to his own estate. Miss Nell Brown was the kitchen maid at Fenley Hall until very recently. She can attest that these items were cooked and consumed on his estate.”

Mr. Alloway wrote something down and looked at Nell. “Would you, Miss Brown, explain how the black-market goods were used within Sir Strickland’s home?”

All eyes were upon Nell.

She cowered back, her shoulders hunched, fear freezing her throat, her mouth, her words.

Gwendoline leaned over and whispered, “They want to hear what you say, Nell. It’s important. Your voice is just as valuable as everyone else’s.”

Dizziness seemed to come over her. She whispered furiously back at Gwendoline, “I can’t do it. Look at them!”

“But you’re important, Nell. You’re crucial,” Gwendoline said. “We’re all in this together, and we have to tell the authorities. The rationing system is in place for everyone’s health and safety. Sir Strickland is a danger to this country.”

Nell’s face creased in thought. “I remember overhearing him in the dining room. I remember—”

She broke off, taking a deep breath and addressing the room. “Sir Strickland’s favorite expression is ‘Rules are for fools.’ I’ve overheard him saying it time and time again—we all have.” Nell spoke up, sitting forward. “Every weekday we cooked the finest ingredients and were told to ignore the rations. Our food came fresh from the farm and some came from big stores in London, like Harrods or Fortnum & Mason. But a lot came from other more anonymous places, too. Very often, plain delivery vans would drop off boxes with deliveries of meat or seafood, French cheeses, or Burgundy wines in nameless caskets. At the weekends, he would entertain, and we had vast joints of meat delivered. I remember once we had boeuf en croute with the longest, most tender fillet I’ve ever seen. Another time a dozen specially aged steaks were delivered by hand. The whole pig spit roasted was enough to feed a banquet of twenty, but it was served to only six.”

    The men listened, some frowning or nodding, others writing notes.

“Did you ever hear of any reason why the rations were not being adhered to as usual?” one of the men from the Ministry of Food asked.

“We were told that it was all part of Sir Strickland’s crucial business and government meetings. Our role was to cook, not to ask questions.”

“Thank you, Miss Brown.”

The meeting went on, and each of the women was asked what their dealings with Sir Strickland had been, how they had witnessed his abuse of the system. Zelda spoke eloquently on the way the factory was run, the priority on profits, not safety, the manager a family friend whose father handled government food contracts.

Shuffling came from the men. This wasn’t just a case of a few isolated incidents. This disregard for the law ran throughout Sir Strickland’s operations.

“This paints a dismal picture,” Mr. Alloway said. “You’re suggesting that Sir Strickland has a pattern of deliberate manipulation and disregard for the law.”

Another of the men said, “It certainly adds to the case we already have.”

Mr. Alloway looked gravely from his notes to one of the other men at the table, who gave the nod to go ahead. “I think we have enough evidence here to pass this matter on to the criminal investigators at Scotland Yard. Once we have him in custody, he’ll have to allow access to business and personal accounts, and the ministry can decide how to prosecute.”

    Relief surged through Nell. They’d done it.

Gwendoline was already out of her seat and striding over to Mr. Alloway. “Thank you,” she said. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but we felt it was right.”

Mr. Alloway nodded. “I imagine it was hard, but you have to realize that these investigations were already under way. All you did was speed it up a little, especially with this accounts book.” He put his hand on the book. “He was always going to end up behind bars, believe me.”

After the initial jubilation as they dashed through the crowds back to the station, as they collapsed into the train home, they settled into a more reflective mood.

“I’m glad that we did it, but I can’t help wishing he hadn’t put us in the position in the first place,” Nell said.

Gwendoline was sitting beside her. “It would never have crossed his mind that we would do such a thing. I hate to say it, but he doesn’t think much of women.”

Zelda let out a laugh. “Well, he’s due to get a nasty shock, then, isn’t he?”

They couldn’t wait to get back to Willow Lodge.

“Audrey will be so pleased it’s all over,” Nell murmured as they walked back from the station.

But when they burst in, desperate to share their news, all they found was Audrey, sitting at the kitchen table, tears running down her face.

Nell rushed to sit beside her.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

She lifted her head, her eyes looking anxiously into Nell’s.

“It’s Mrs. Quince. We’d better get you to the hospital.”

Nell

Death was something that Nell knew well. At the orphanage, diphtheria, tuberculosis, and other diseases struck regularly; a nasty bout of influenza rapidly took five one March. “The March of the Dead” they’d called it.

She knew what death meant. She knew the gut-wrenching stab when someone was gone, never to return. But the painful reality of Mrs. Quince lying close to death was simply too hard for her to grasp.

How can life go on without her in it?

Nell trod softly into the hospital ward. Mrs. Quince had been moved into a quiet, darkened one. On one side, a row of women injured by the bombing raids lay on parallel beds, a harsh reminder of the price of this war, the first to impact civilians in the same way as soldiers on the front line: injury and death. As she looked at the white-bandaged arms, legs, and heads, Nell wondered what it was all for, innocent women being maimed and murdered by men in planes dropping bombs onto cities. How callous! Was exchanging deaths the only answer?

Mrs. Quince’s bed was at the end on the left.

Nell drew breath. Mrs. Quince was asleep, and Nell hadn’t been ready to see her like this, pale, her face relaxed so much it had lost its form, its life. Her mouth had fallen into an open frown, her usually sparkling eyes closed.

    “Sit down,” the nurse said, bringing up a chair. “I’ll wake her up for you.” Gently, she pressed her shoulder. “Mrs. Quince, there’s someone here to see you.”

As the old woman’s eyes began to flutter open, the nurse gave her a sad smile and silently left them to be alone.

A lump as hard as a nutmeg grew in Nell’s throat, a thronging pain making her wince both inside and out.

It took a few minutes for the old woman to wake up properly, but when she saw Nell, a frail smile came to her face. “Nell, dear, don’t be sad now. I’ve had a good, long life.” Her voice was shaky and weak, but there was that same contentment that she had in life, that same certainty and solidity.

“It’s not time for you to go, Mrs. Quince. You’re not ready—I’m not ready. I need you.”

Mrs. Quince patted her hand. “My cooking days are gone. I’ve done enough baking and kneading for one life. To be honest, my dear, you’re the one who’s been doing it all for the last few years. What a joy you’ve been to me, making each day brighter and friendlier. Whoever it was who sent you to me”—she glanced at the heavens—“they knew what they were doing.”

“It was the other way around. It’s me who should be grateful for finding someone as wonderful and kind as you. Before I met you, I was alone. But you took me into your heart, showed me how to cook, and made me feel like I belonged. You made me feel I was more than an unwanted orphan, that I was someone who could be useful, someone who could cook great dishes. Someone who could stand up for herself. You were the one who made me come alive.”

Quietly, Nell began to cry, vast waves of grief convulsing through her as she put her head down beside Mrs. Quince’s hand. The older woman stroked her hair, as if she were still a girl.

“There’s something I want to share with you, Nell.”

Nell brought her face up to look into Mrs. Quince’s tired gray eyes. “What is it?” she said, desperate for more—any last details about her life, herself, her.