As she leant forward, taking a deep breath, ready to pull back the lid, she jumped as the bedroom door opened. Please don’t let it be my mother, she thought fleetingly – she couldn’t cope with Hillary crying about Helen’s lost opportunities now she was no longer the wife of an MP. Thankfully it was Effie, carrying a small tray.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Miss Helen; I brought up a cup of tea, and one for myself while we get stuck in. You still want me to help out, don’t you?’

  Helen smiled. Effie’s cheerful company was exactly what she needed. If Effie did ask questions or make comments, they would be innocent and well-intentioned, unlike her mother’s incessant digging and whining.

  ‘Come in, Effie. I’ll be grateful for some company and that cup of tea.’

  ‘Why, Miss Helen, you’ve not even started yet.’

  ‘I’m finding it difficult. I didn’t think it would be, but . . .’

  Effie put down the tray and hurried over to give Helen a hug. ‘Oh, Miss Helen, of course it’s going to be difficult; it’s a bit like digging up memories and yours must be so raw, why it’s only been a few months since he . . .’

  ‘Was murdered?’

  ‘What a horrible word that is. I do hope they’ve made a mistake. It’s a nasty way to meet your end. And then to set up the gas explosion soon afterwards. Though . . . if they’d wanted to make it look like an accident, they shouldn’t have used a knife, surely?’

  Helen frowned; Effie had a point. Whatever the reason, it was a horrible way for him to die.

  Effie rubbed her hands together. ‘Let’s get cracking, Miss Helen. It might just take your mind off things for a while.’

  ‘Please, Effie, can you stop calling me Miss Helen? Helen is fine.’

  ‘But your mother wouldn’t like it.’

  Helen sighed; her mother had a lot to answer for. ‘In that case, just call me Helen when we are alone. When Mother’s about, you can call me whatever you wish. Do you agree?’

  ‘That sounds good to me, Mi— Helen.’

  She couldn’t help but chuckle as Effie corrected herself. ‘I must say, I do like your name. Effie isn’t a name I’ve come across before. Is it a family name?’

  Effie pulled a face. ‘You could say that. I’m named after my dad’s maiden aunt. She’d promised to leave him something in her will, so when I came along, I was christened Euphemia, would you believe? She popped her clogs a couple of months later and my parents, who could never get their tongue around the name, quickly started calling me Effie, thank the Lord.’

  Helen snorted with laughter. ‘I hope your parents did well out of the lady.’

  ‘A pottery dog with a crack in one ear and a mourning brooch. You can see why I never passed the name on to either of my girls. Even my Frank refused to say my full name when we married. He said he almost left me at the altar until the vicar told him Effie would be sufficient. I had my doubts whether the old boy could say it, either,’ she laughed.

  ‘Oh my,’ Helen said as she dabbed away tears of laughter. Effie was such a lovely person, she couldn’t help but like her. ‘You are a tonic.’

  ‘Come on, open the trunk. Let’s get started and then we can drink our tea. I put a couple of slices of fruit cake on a plate as well. I wonder if we’ll still be able to have that, once the rationing starts? It’s a bloody liberty, that’s what it is. Someone ought to complain. Gawd knows what I’ll do when I can’t put one of my cakes in front of Mrs Davis.’ Effie seemed to have momentarily forgotten that Hillary had all but given her marching orders. ‘A bloody liberty!’

  ‘The man you need to complain to is Mr Hitler, Effie. He’s at the bottom of the world’s problems,’ Helen said as she pulled back the lid of the trunk. Straight away, she could identify the familiar smell of John’s cigarettes and Old Spice cologne; if she closed her eyes, she could imagine him standing there. She gave herself a mental shake. This wouldn’t get things done.

  ‘He was a snappy dresser,’ Effie said, lifting out a smart grey woollen suit and hanging it from the picture rail. ‘Crikey, there’s another,’ she added, pulling out a navy-blue one. ‘Fancy him having more than one suit. All the men I knew just had one for Sunday best. But then, I suppose someone like your husband would’ve worn them all the time, wouldn’t he . . . What’s this?’

  She put her hand into the pocket of the grey suit.

  ‘Oh, look,’ she went on, pulling out a woman’s silk scarf. ‘It’s like one the Queen would wear. They must have packed your scarf in here by mistake, instead of putting it in your suitcases.’

  Helen was about to say that the scarf wasn’t hers, but then she stopped speaking and took it from Effie, lifting it to her face. She recognized it – and the lingering scent it carried of the Schiaparelli perfume, Shocking. The only person she knew who wore that was Felicity.

  But what was Felicity’s scarf doing in John’s pocket? They’d hated each other. John was forever telling Helen that he did not approve of her friends; and hadn’t Felicity told her only the night before John’s death that she should consider leaving him?

  She pushed the unanswered questions to the back of her mind. I’ll get this trunk cleared and then I will think about the scarf later, she told herself. As much as she liked Effie, it didn’t seem right to burden her with all of these troubles. Not at the moment, anyway.

  In all there were six business suits, a formal dress suit and several pairs of casual trousers, including tweeds that Helen knew were normally kept at John’s parents’ home in the country. He must have worn them back to London at some time when he’d visited. He had liked to go up there to shoot or ride, while she’d preferred to remain in London.

  ‘Look at all these ties,’ Effie exclaimed. ‘Are they silk?’

  ‘Yes, I believe they are,’ Helen answered as she added several bow ties and black cummerbunds to the pile Effie had placed on the bed.

  ‘And a red shirt – no, it’s a blouse,’ Effie said as she passed a garment to Helen. ‘Another of yours packed by mistake.’

  Helen couldn’t believe her eyes. Something else belonging to Felicity? She’d know this blouse anywhere, having been with her friend when it was purchased. A dull pain pierced her heart as she held the proof in her hand that her husband had been unfaithful. Why else would the blouse and the scarf be mixed up with his own clothing? How had they gotten there? Again, she pushed the thought from her mind and carried on with the job at hand. Next came shirts: pure cotton, pale pinstripes, small checks, and several casual shirts that she remembered John wearing when he wasn’t at the office. She laid them out on her bed.

  ‘All this is so beautiful. You’d not think such material was used to make men’s clothing,’ Effie remarked, holding up a paisley silk smoking jacket to admire its red lapels and elegant design. ‘How posh, and what’s this, a dressing gown . . .? And look at these pyjamas – just to wear in bed. Who would’ve thought it?’

  ‘John did like to dress well,’ Helen said, feeling slightly embarrassed that her husband had owned so much fine clothing. She quickly lifted out a pile of underclothes and put them to one side.

  ‘We still haven’t reached the bottom of the trunk . . .’ Effie gasped and picked up a case containing a shaving kit, silver-backed brush and several bottles of cologne. ‘He obviously liked to look after himself. I wish I’d met him. He makes my old man look downright scruffy. A bar of carbolic soap and a jar of Brylcreem along with his ciggies is all he ever needs. But I suppose when we had to drag in the old tin bath from the backyard just to have a scrub down, we couldn’t afford to be fussy.’

  There was such a large divide, thought Helen, between her late husband and Effie’s husband – they were classes apart.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, my husband had more clothes than I did,’ she smiled. ‘In his job he had to be seen to dress well. He was always encouraging me to buy more frocks, but I wasn’t one for dressing up. A few good pieces were all I required.’ She recalled the designer pieces she had worn to important events, although they hadn’t brought her much enjoyment. That lifestyle had never reflected who she really was – more what John had wished her to be.

  ‘Oh, look at these socks! Surely they’re not silk too?’ Effie said, reaching out to pick up several black pairs. ‘The woollen ones are so soft,’ she sighed, holding them to her face.

  ‘I have no need of them, so would you like to take them for your husband? I’m sure he could make good use of them.’

  ‘I’ll take the wool ones, if you don’t mind,’ Effie said gratefully. ‘My old man wouldn’t have much use for silk socks while he’s in the service. Oh, there’s something else here,’ she added, reaching in and pulling out a flat gift box with the name of a well-known department store embossed in one corner.

  Helen had no idea what might be inside. ‘Go ahead and open it,’ she suggested.

  ‘Oh, Miss Helen,’ Effie said, forgetting she’d promised not to use the title. ‘Do you think your husband bought it for you as a gift before he died?’ She lifted the thin straps of an elegant cream satin negligee, draping it against herself before handing it over to Helen with an envious look on her face.

  Helen didn’t like to say that there had been no reason for John to buy her a present, as her birthday had been back in April. Nor was he the type of person to shop early for Christmas, and considering he’d died in October, she was certain that wasn’t the answer. She ran her fingers over the delicate cream lace on the bodice. It matched the trim on the hem of the flowing, almost diaphanous skirt. No, this was not a gift for his wife. A quick glance at the discreet size label showed it was meant for a more voluptuous woman than Helen – a woman like Felicity.

  ‘Oh look, there’s a card,’ Effie said, handing over the vellum envelope.

  Helen pulled a small notecard from inside and read the few words before putting it back and sliding it into the drawer of her bedside table. ‘I’ll read it properly later,’ she smiled. ‘Let’s have that cake, shall we?’ The writing on the card was familiar to her, but was not John’s handwriting. For our eyes only was not something he would ever have said to her, let alone written.

  Effie, more than pleased with the bundle of underwear and socks she’d been given, went to check on her girls, who were colouring paper shapes to hang on the small Christmas tree. Helen sat on the edge of the bed, deep in thought. She’d overheard on more than one occasion the wives of her husband’s colleagues whispering about him having a fondness for the ladies. Helen had shrugged it off at the time; she’d only known him to be a hard worker and a man who seemed to care for her. They’d planned to spend their lives together, and to have a family; that was the usual expectation for any respectable politician.

  John had laughed it off when, early in their marriage, one particularly spiteful comment had been meant for Helen to overhear. She’d held herself together until they were in a taxicab travelling home, when her worries had spilt out. Seeing how upset she was, he had reassured her that none of it was true. He’d explained that some wives of MPs fought between themselves to make their husbands stand out more in the newspapers by tearing others to pieces. He’d said it was a competition of sorts, and she would need to accept it – either that, or stay at home and not attend events where she might be belittled or put down. He’d pulled a newspaper from his pocket and opened it to the society pages, pointing out that the women she’d mentioned were prominently featured at different social events. ‘This is what you should be doing,’ he’d said, ‘rather than feeling sorry for yourself. When you married me, you took on more than a husband – you took on an essential job.’

  Helen had accepted all of this and worked hard to live up to his expectations, visiting couture houses to be fitted for the right sort of gowns and smiling her way through high-profile gatherings. She’d hated every minute of these affairs and generally preferred to busy herself working with John’s social diary, representing him at charity meetings and accompanying him to meet constituents. The same society pages he’d pointed out to her now featured Helen as a hard-working, smartly dressed wife, chatting to housewives about the price of food and consoling those whose husbands were away serving their country. She did her best to steer clear of her fellow political wives, whom she now thought of as a witches’ coven.

  They’d fallen into a routine which seemed, for the most part, to suit them both. If they were invited to evening affairs, he never pressed her to accompany him. She made a point of not listening to gossip, and was able to ignore anything that was being said. Occasionally Helen did wish their relationship was more passionate, but she always pushed that longing to the back of her mind. John wasn’t one for romance and she had known that when she’d agreed to be his wife. She’d made herself useful to him – that was what mattered.

  She wondered what those other women were saying now.

  Reaching into her handbag for a handkerchief, she came across the card Lizzie had given her earlier in the day and remembered the older woman’s invitation to visit. Helen would have loved to make a quilt using pieces of fabric representing precious memories. How unfortunate that her immediate memory just now was of a horribly murdered husband who had likely been unfaithful.

  A thought came to her as she stared at the suits and shirts, the silk ties and the flat gift box. Opening her wardrobe, she took out the sewing box she’d won in the raffle and removed a pair of scissors before turning to the grey suit and swiftly cutting off one of the trouser legs. With a sigh of satisfaction, she set to cutting pieces of fabric from every one of her husband’s garments. He had obviously been keeping secrets, and she didn’t like secrets . . .

  She placed all the pieces into a canvas bag, then tipped the contents of the gift box in as well. Going to her wardrobe again, she took out a full-length eau-de-nil taffeta gown, cutting the full skirt straight across the waistline and separating it from the bodice. As she shook it out before folding it to place in the bag, the shot silk lining fell to her feet. She picked it up, admiring the colour.

  ‘I think I have myself a project,’ she smiled to herself, before standing back to look at her handiwork. Then she opened the sewing basket to examine the rest of its contents. Her life was starting to become interesting.

  Helen’s chin almost hit the ground as she turned the corner and looked up the lane towards Lizzie’s house. Pulling to a halt on her bicycle, she called out to a man working in a nearby garden. ‘Excuse me – can you tell me if that property up ahead is Dalton Court?’

  He tapped the brim of his cap in greeting. ‘Yes, it is, and all the land round here. It’s just my cottage and garden that don’t belong to them.’

  Helen thanked him and cycled on her way, feeling the heavy weight of the fabric packed into the canvas bag, which she’d strapped to her bicycle basket. She was careful not to wobble on the bike whenever she thought of how she’d attacked John’s clothing. She felt rather sick. What had she done? Then she thought of the silk scarf, the heady perfume that still clung to the fabric and stirred memories. As for the negligee . . . She felt her fury return as she pedalled hard up the lane, anger spurring her on to reach the large house at the end of the drive bordered by mature oak trees.

  Feeling as though she should be parking her bicycle around the back of the house by the servants’ entrance, Helen instead leant it against one of the ornate pillars close to the house’s large double front doors, and unstrapped her bag of fabric. As she was raising her hand to knock on the door it suddenly swung open and Lizzie stood there, immaculately made up and with not a hair out of place, wearing a bright floral tea dress.

  ‘I’m sorry about . . .’ Helen started to say.

  ‘Oh, my dear, don’t worry about that. Mine is usually propped up against one of the trees. Come along in – I think the time is about right for drinks, don’t you?’

  Helen followed, not sure three o’clock was quite right for drinks, unless of course Lizzie meant tea or coffee. Stepping into the large hall, she was faced with a wide staircase that split at the top, turning left and right. The pillars supporting the entrance to the front door were also visible in the hall, reaching up to the high ceiling. The floor was a mosaic pattern of black and white marble.

  ‘You have a beautiful home,’ was all she could think of to say. Her mother would have been so envious of Lizzie’s lifestyle: in her world, the size of one’s house was a direct reflection of one’s social position. By that measure, Lizzie’s social standing was up in the clouds somewhere.

  ‘We don’t own the property, just rent. I thought coming over to England to live, we should try to live like country folk. It’s such fun – we even have a butler,’ Lizzie whispered as she led Helen into a drawing room. ‘Sit yourself down, you must be exhausted after that ride. I cycle up and down the drive to keep fit, as I don’t ride a horse. It keeps me slim,’ she said, slapping the sides of her legs. ‘What do you fancy?’ She went over to a cocktail cabinet. ‘A Sidecar perhaps, or a Mary Pickford? I make a mean Torpedo.’ She winked. ‘We have an hour before tea is served. I told Doreen four o’clock to give us time to have a chat, and for me to show you more of my quilts. I’ve set up a sewing room in one of the spare bedrooms.’ She added with a chuckle, ‘And there are plenty of spare rooms in this house.’

  Helen was completely thrown. She suddenly couldn’t think of the name of a single cocktail, even though she’d been served them plenty of times in London. ‘Oh, I don’t know – surprise me,’ she said, trying to sound like a confident woman of the world, although inside she was quaking. She’d expected Lizzie’s home to be a nice little cottage where she sat and worked on her patchwork quilts. This grand house had thrown her completely. ‘What does your husband do that affords you such an impressive house?’ she asked, then stopped to apologize. ‘I’m so sorry – that does sound rather nosy of me.’

  Lizzie laughed as she finished mixing the drinks and brought them over, handing one to Helen. ‘Here, try this, it’s a Shirley Temple. I’m rather partial to them – at this time of day I seldom touch alcohol. If you don’t like the taste, I’ll make something stronger.’ She sat down. ‘My husband, Gerald, is a major in the Canadian air force. He’s over here on top secret business. God knows what it is: he doesn’t tell me a thing. Oh dear, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. You could be a spy,’ she chuckled.