As the doctor glanced back at the X-ray, Charles began to cough violently again. When he’d finished, he wiped his lips with his already stained handkerchief as the nurse took the sputum bowl away.

He’d had a fraught evening. Almost as soon as Agatha and Milly had set off for the party, he had been wracked by a series of coughing fits which resulted in Mrs Cunningham, despite his protestations, ringing his GP. Dr Jennings was unequivocal in his diagnosis.

‘I’m sorry, Charles,’ he said, ‘but there’s no avoiding it this time. I’m phoning for an ambulance. You have to go to Worthing Hospital immediately.’

Charles tried to protest but Dr Jennings overrode his objections. ‘Pack a bag,’ he told Mrs Cunningham. ‘Mr Shepherd may be gone for some time.’

‘I want to stay here,’ Charles said breathlessly. ‘If I’m going to die, I want to be in my own home.’

Mrs Cunningham clamped her handkerchief over her mouth to suppress a cry as she hurried from the room.

‘Listen to me, old man,’ said Dr Jennings, leaning over him. ‘Let the surgeon take a look at you before we decide on something like that. This is going to come as a tremendous shock to Agatha, not least because she has no idea how ill you are. I wish you’d let me tell her about your condition six months ago. You never should have hidden it for so long.’

Weak and breathless, Charles leaned back in his chair. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ he said, his breath coming in heavy gasps. ‘It’s important.’

‘Anything, old man.’

‘In my desk drawer,’ said Charles. ‘My will.’

The doctor shook his head. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’

‘No, listen,’ said Charles, suppressing another cough. ‘Please. I want you to take it with you.’

The sound of an ambulance pulling up on the gravel outside made Charles even more anxious. He tried to get up.

‘All right, all right,’ said Dr Jennings. ‘I’ll get it. In the desk drawer, you say?’

Charles sank back down onto the cushions with a sigh and a weak nod of his head.

Mrs Cunningham knocked and, putting her head around the door, said, ‘The ambulance is here, sir.’

As Dr Jennings crossed the hallway, Mrs Cunningham was opening the front door. ‘In the lounge,’ the doctor told the St John Ambulance men as they came in. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

He had to open several drawers before he found the document, and he felt a little awkward when he became aware that Mrs Cunningham was standing in the hallway watching him. It didn’t look good rifling through drawers when his patient was so helpless. ‘Mr Shepherd wants this,’ he told her brusquely.

Back in the sitting room, Charles was being strapped onto an ambulance chair. He was very pale, and perspiration trickled down his face.

‘Is this what you wanted?’ Dr Jennings said in a loud voice, holding up the envelope for all to see.

‘Give it to my lawyer,’ said Charles, his voice weak and feeble. ‘No one else, d’you hear me? Only my lawyer.’

Dr Jennings put the envelope into his bag and the sorry procession made its way outside to the ambulance. As it set off, Dr Jennings climbed into his own car. ‘You’d better get hold of Mrs Shepherd,’ he told Mrs Cunningham as his parting shot. ‘Mr Shepherd is quite poorly.’

The doctors at Worthing Hospital put Charles into a private cubicle and ordered X-rays. The results came as no shock to him. Cancer. Advanced tumour in the right lung. He’d known for some time but had kept it to himself. It was stupid, but something had made him believe that if he paid it no attention, it might go away. He’d been a damned fool but there it was. He’d gone to see Dr Jennings about a month before, but by that point all the doctor could suggest was hospital and surgery, and Charles wanted neither. He’d seen enough of his old friends succumb to the disease. Surgery was still in its infancy and radical. It only seemed to delay the inevitable, anyway.

He’d done some careful thinking and the only change he’d made in his life was his Last Will and Testament. He’d done it some time ago, but it had only occurred to him tonight as he sat in his sitting room, gasping for breath, that his new will had to be protected. It was imperative that nobody took the opportunity to destroy it.

It was quiet in the garden. Milly found a seat near a sweet-smelling border containing phlox and night-scented stock. Old-fashioned honeysuckle and star jasmine had been encouraged to intertwine and climb along the wall of what Milly supposed were the kitchen gardens. It was quite dark now. She could hear the voices of lovers in other parts of the garden, and in the far distance, someone was smoking a cigarette. Every now and then the red glow of the tip grew brighter.

She was exhausted. The whole evening had been a nightmare. She’d entered the house in an optimistic mood, but Pearl’s carefully crafted ‘put-down’ had changed all that. She hadn’t seen her sister in months and, until that moment, she had almost forgotten how devastating her cutting remarks could be. Nervous and embarrassed in equal measure, her mood wasn’t helped when Pearl had completely abandoned her and she’d been forced to stand alone for ages. She didn’t know anyone and, without her glasses, she could hardly see anyone anyway. Thankfully no one seemed to notice she was there. Pearl and Freddie only had eyes for each other and everyone else seemed to be deep in conversation. At one point the crowd parted and, turning her head slightly, Milly saw a vaguely familiar figure on the other side of the room. She couldn’t quite make out her features, but the person smiled so Milly smiled back. Thus encouraged, she walked towards the girl and the girl came towards her. Milly’s hand was outstretched when, to her absolute horror, she suddenly realised that the person in front of her was, in fact, her own reflection in a long mirror. For a second or two the conversation in the room died. The silence was broken by the sound of Pearl’s raucous laughter. Then the rest of the room erupted into laughter. Milly froze. Tears bit the back of her eyes but she managed to keep her dignity. Turning, she pretended she’d done it on purpose as a joke by joining in with her sister’s laughter and, for a few very welcome minutes, people offered her a drink, or an hors d’oeuvres, and asked where she was from. Eventually Milly excused herself from the room by saying that she needed to get a breath of fresh air.

It was cold in the garden and Milly shivered. Unlike her sister, she hadn’t brought a shawl. She was unused to soirées and posh-frock dos, and besides, the only shawl she had was wrapped around the doll in the bottom of the drawer in her room. The thought of it made the dark fingers of guilt worm their way into her thoughts once more. She shivered again.

‘You look cold.’

Milly jumped and, looking up, she saw a man removing his dinner jacket.

‘Oh no,’ she cried, ‘please don’t.’ But it was already around her, and she could feel the residual warmth from his body seeping into her cold shoulders. ‘May I?’ he said, indicating the spare seat on the bench.

Her heart already quickening, Milly nodded. She didn’t know this man, but if he was at Lady Verity’s, she supposed he must be all right, mustn’t he?

‘Eustace Henderson,’ he introduced himself, holding out his hand as he sat beside her.

‘Eustace?’

He shrugged. ‘God-awful name, I know, but I’m stuck with it.’

Embarrassed, Milly added, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said amiably. ‘And your name?’

‘Millicent Shepherd,’ said Milly with a smile, ‘but everyone calls me Milly.’

‘Haven’t seen you around the circuit before.’

‘I haven’t been,’ she said shyly. ‘This is my first event.’

He frowned. ‘You’re Pearl’s little sister, aren’t you?’

Milly was a bit embarrassed to be called ‘little’, but she nodded nonetheless. ‘We were together but she’s gone off with someone called Freddie.’

‘Oh that blasted idiot,’ Eustace said dismissively, then obviously thought better of his comment because he added, ‘Excuse my French, but I take exception to someone barging up to me and demanding that I settle a wager in front of everybody. There are ways of doing things, you know.’ He shook his head apologetically. ‘Sorry to rant on like that,’ he continued, ‘but I’d be very careful if I were you. He’s always sneaking around and watching people. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. I ask you, what sort of chap carries a little book around with him and spends all his time scribbling in it?’

‘Really?’ Milly gasped. ‘What sort of things does he write?’

‘No idea,’ said Eustace, ‘but it gives me the creeps.’ He pointed to his jacket, indicating his inside pocket. ‘I say, do you mind?’

She shook her head and he reached in for his cigarette case. He offered her one but Milly shook her head. He found his lighter in his trouser pocket and lit up.

‘So, Milly,’ he said, taking a deep breath, ‘what do you do?’

‘Nothing. I’m studying art at the moment.’

He smiled. ‘Oh dear. Always sounds so awfully final, doesn’t it?’

He didn’t seem very old himself – maybe nineteen or twenty. He wasn’t particularly handsome but he had a kind face. His wild ginger hair gave his head a sort of cone shape and, because they were sitting so close together, she could just make out the five o’clock shadow on his face.

‘I hate these bloody parties,’ he said, crossing his legs and leaning back on the bench.