She bit her lip as she watched him stroll serenely up the street in his uniform, confident of the respect that was his entitlement. She almost ran after him, but she did not.
She watched him pass Primrose Cottage, and a horrid possibility occurred to her. Had Ruby kept the letter to hand to Bernard himself, out of some embittered notion of revenge? But he went past and on his way. There was no sign of Ruby.
He was back in twenty minutes with the magazine. He smiled at Sally and said, ‘How about a coffee?’
‘Of course. Who did you meet?’
‘Only old George. And Mrs Parker, of course. I want to do a spot of gardening before I have my sleep. The weeds are taking over in the front.’
The morning passed with agonising slowness. Bernard worked steadily in the garden, greeting people as they passed. From the window, Sally saw Ruby emerge from the cottage, but she turned in the other direction, probably to do some cleaning for Miss Seddon, who had the big house by the church.
Jonathan was understandably subdued that morning. He lingered in his room, keeping out of his father’s way.
‘Did you tell Daddy?’ he asked Sally over breakfast.
‘Not yet.’
‘Will he have to know?’
‘I expect so.’ She hesitated. ‘Jonathan, did you post all the letters that you found upstairs? Every single one?’
‘Yes.’ He gave a sniff. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy.’
‘You went up and down the street posting them in all the houses?’
‘Yes. I thought they were just old letters.’
‘They were, but you had no right to do it.’
At noon, Bernard had lunch and went to get some sleep.
Michael was back from school. ‘Everyone knows about Jon and the letters.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Sally, ‘but as far as we’re concerned, it’s finished. Go and tell your brother lunch is ready.’
Early in the afternoon, she crossed the street and rang the bell at Primrose Cottage.
Ruby Simmons was definitely back. Sally could hear her moving about inside. But she didn’t come to the door.
Sally pressed the bell a second time. And a third. She refused to be ignored. Recovering that letter mattered more to her than some schoolgirlish feud.
She called out, ‘Ruby, this is Sally Wilding. I want to speak to you. It’s important.’
There was no response.
‘I think you have something that belongs to me. I want it back, please.’
She walked around the cottage to the back door. Before she got there, she heard the bolt drawn across. She stared through the kitchen window. Ruby must have run upstairs.
It was a seventeenth-century cottage, and Ruby had not done much to keep it up. Sally could easily have forced a window open and got inside, but that would have been a criminal offence. She came away.
At home, she wrote a note politely asking Ruby to return the letter. She delivered it herself. She heard Ruby come and pick it off the mat. That was all that happened.
That evening, after Bernard had gone back on duty, Sally sat listening for footsteps on the path. Several times, when something in the cottage creaked, she got up to check the letterbox.
She was beginning to feel desperate. She could think of nothing else but recovering that letter. She had tried to shake off the obsession by telling herself that as she planned to destroy the letter anyway, she didn’t care about it. But of course she did. She cared for Bernard’s sake. And hers. And Jonathan’s — that small boy who had given her a lesson in telling the truth.
In bed that night, she thought of a way to get her letter back.
Over breakfast, she said to Bernard, ‘It’s such a lovely morning. Why don’t you take Jonathan fishing? You’ve often promised him, and you said yourself that we should stop treating him as the baby. It will do him good to have an outing with his father.’
She watched from the front-room window as they went, and she remained there, watching Primrose Cottage.
At about the same time as the previous morning, Ruby came out and turned in the direction of Miss Seddon’s.
Sally waited until the street was clear and then crossed to Primrose Cottage and went straight around the side to the back door. It was bolted. She glanced about her. The back windows of the cottage were not overlooked. She took a steel knitting needle from her waistband and pushed it where the wood had warped between one window and the frame.
The catch lifted at the second attempt. She pulled the window open and climbed through.
There were letters on the kitchen table. Hers was not among them. She went into the living room and searched the dresser and the writing bureau. Drawers, bookshelves, window sills. Where had Ruby put it?
She went upstairs. A tidy bedroom. The bed made. She spotted the photo at once: a small, framed portrait of Bernard as he had been at seventeen, before he had cut his hair to join the police. Across it, in his handwriting, the words To Ruby, lots of love, Bernard. Sally wished she had not seen it.
She went to the dressing table and opened the drawers. She was feeling sick inside. This was the first really bad thing she had done in her life. It was despicable. It was a crime. Yet she had to go on with it.
She started on the chest of drawers. Passed her hand between the layers of clothes. Crossed to the bed and lifted the pillow.
‘What are you doing here?’
Sally dropped the pillow and froze.
‘What are you doing in my bedroom?’ Ruby demanded in a measured voice.
Sally turned. Ruby had the knitting needle in her hand, holding it like a knife. She must have found it by the open window. She must have only gone as far as the store when she went out.
Sally answered with an effort to sound calm, ‘Looking for my letter.’
‘It isn’t here.’
‘What have you done with it, then?’
‘I haven’t got your letter.’
‘Ruby, I wish I hadn’t had to do this, but that letter belongs to me. I want it back.’
‘And you think that gives you the right to force your way into my home and search my things? That’s unlawful entry, Sally Wilding, even if you are married to the policeman.’
‘I’m sorry. If you had opened the door to me yesterday—’
‘I didn’t wish to. There’s no law that says I have to speak to you, but there is a law to protect my home from sneak thieves and intruders, and it’s your husband’s duty to enforce it. Does he know you’re here?’
‘No.’
There was a moment’s pause.
Ruby’s mouth twitched. ‘Get you in a nice spot of trouble if I report this to the police, won’t it?’
‘Don’t. Please.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
Sally glanced towards the photograph of Bernard.
Ruby said, ‘You’re scum. What are you?’
‘Scum.’
‘Get downstairs. I’ll be close behind you.’
Sally obeyed. She was humiliated. She didn’t know what to expect.
At the foot of the stairs, Ruby said, ‘Which of your boys was it?’
‘Jonathan.’
‘The little one? How tall is he?’
Sally indicated. ‘About this high.’
‘Look at my front door,’ said Ruby. ‘See where the letterbox is? My Aunt Lucy had it specially made when the new door was fitted. The kids next door were always playing knock down ginger when they were small, so she had the letterbox as high as possible. Your Jonathan couldn’t possibly reach it.’
Sally could see that she was right. She should have seen before. She shook her head. She was close to tears. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Ruby said, ‘Does he know yet?’