“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she said, sounding almost human. “It must have been a great shock to you. He wasn’t old.”

“Sixty-four,” I said mechanically. “Not old at all.”

“He was very proud of you, you know.”

I reacted to this with surprise. “Proud of me?”

“Oh yes. He talked about you often. How well you had done at university and how you were soon to be called to the bar.”

This was completely unexpected. My father had resisted my desire to go to university. His attitude toward women belonged to the prewar era, to a time when he was the son of Sir Toby Langley of Langley Hall and life consisted of house parties and dances and fox hunts. A good match was made for girls, and they became mistresses of their own fine country houses. He refused to see that in the post-war era, girls like me had to make their own way in the world and could expect no help from their families. A good career was essential. And so quite without his help I had sat the entrance exams to Oxford and Cambridge and, as a backup, to University College London. I had been shattered with disappointment when I hadn’t secured a place at either Oxford or Cambridge, but I had got into UCL. A good second best, I suppose. It had never occurred to me at the time that a headmistress’s recommendation would have helped get me into an Oxbridge college, and I’m sure Miss Honeywell hadn’t been flattering in her letter about me, if she even wrote one at all.

A government scholarship paid for my tuition, and I worked all summer at a seaside hotel as a chambermaid to pay for my room and board. While others of my generation had held protest marches, love-ins, and sit-ins, and chanted, “Make peace, not war,” I had worked diligently. And so I had graduated with an upper second degree—not the first I wanted, but still pretty good. I then hoped to become a barrister.

Miss Honeywell must have been reading my thoughts.

“You are presumably working for the firm of solicitors to which I sent the telegram?”

“That’s right.” I saw no reason to tell her that I wasn’t working there at the moment, nor the reason for my leave of absence. “I have been articled there and hoped to take the bar exam this summer, but it will now have to be in the winter. They haven’t said whether they’d like me to stay on once I’m fully qualified.”

“An interesting practice?”

“Not particularly. A lot of conveyancing and wills and the sort of routine stuff one gives to juniors.”

“I should have thought a barrister was more your style,” she said, staring at me keenly with those little bird-like black eyes of hers. “You always did like to plead your case, and you could be quite persuasive.”

She broke off as an elderly maid came in with a tea tray. It was properly laid with a flowered bone china teapot, a matching milk jug and sugar basin, two cups, two saucers, and a plate of biscuits.

“Should I pour, Miss Honeywell?” the maid asked, but I noticed she was looking at me. When my gaze met hers she blushed and looked away.

“No, thank you, Alice. I’m sure we can manage,” Miss Honeywell said, dismissing her with a vague wave. She picked up the silver strainer and placed it over a cup as she poured. “Ah, lapsang souchong,” she said. “She knows my preference. Do you take it with lemon or milk?”

I didn’t happen to like China tea either way, but said, “Lemon, please,” because I thought this was the right answer. I had become adept at sensing what people wanted to hear. I watched her pour the amber liquid into fragile china cups. How civilised this all was. A life so different from mine with rides on packed Tube trains and dinner from the Indian takeaway when I could afford it. And all the while my father was lying dead on a slab in the morgue. I decided I had endured polite conversation long enough. I dropped a slice of lemon into my tea and took a sip. It was too hot to drink, so I put it down.

“With regard to my father, I’m not sure what happens next,” I said. “Should I arrange with the vicar for a funeral?”

“You should presumably visit the morgue first,” she said. “They won’t release the body for burial until they have signed the death certificate, and if there is an autopsy or there are any kinds of questions, then that could take several days.”

She offered me the plate of biscuits. I rejected the chocolate digestive, not wanting to end up with it melting on my fingers, and instead opted for a custard cream. I nibbled delicately while I tried to put my thoughts in order. I hadn’t considered being here for several days. I really hadn’t thought things through at all, rushing out to take the next train from Waterloo, just knowing that I needed to be at my father’s side—even though he was beyond help.

“Might I have the key to the lodge?” I said. “It seems a little far to keep going up and down to London.”

“Of course,” she said. “You’ll want to go through your father’s things anyway, and you could get a good start.” She opened a drawer and took out a big, old-fashioned key, handing it to me with solemnity, as if she was presenting someone with the keys to the city. “Oh, and Joanna,” she added, “I don’t mean to rush you, and I want you to take all the time you need, but I should point out that your father was allowed the use of the lodge only as long as he was employed by the school. I have a new physical education teacher and tennis coach coming this term. He’s also a man, and I would like to house him suitably far away from the girls. One can’t put temptation in their way, and he is quite good-looking.” She met my gaze and smiled. “You know what it’s like with a flock of girls and an attractive young man.”