Dougal had been away for a week. Fabian was in London, a fact for which I was glad. I could well do without his disturbing presence. I was becoming obsessed by the thought of Janine and my dreams about The Firs kept recurring. I had an idea that if I went to the New Forest and saw the place for myself, I might discover something from the local people. Janine had been so close to us during those anxious months and had done so much to help us, I just could not forget her.

I was in constant communication with Polly, who kept me informed of Fleur's progress, and I wrote to her and told her of my concern about Janine and how I could not forget the fire at The Firs and the terrible tragedy that had overtaken all those people among whom for a short time I had lived.

Polly had an idea. What if I came to London? She and I could take a trip to the place. Eff would be in sole charge of Fleur, which would please her. And so it was arranged.

I left the rectory and this time travelled alone to London.

Polly was at the station to meet me and there was the usual affectionate greeting.

Then there was the joy of seeing Fleur and Eff again. Fleur had grown amazingly; she now toddled and could even say something that sounded like Eff ... Poll ... yes ... no— quite emphatically this last. She was enchanting and seemed very satisfied with life.

Eff and Polly vied for her affection and she gave it with regal unconcern; and it was quite clear to me that no mother could give a child more love than did those two dear people.

Polly had made plans for our visit. She suggested we go the next day and spend the night at one of the inns nearby. She had discovered through Third Floor Back in one of the houses— who most fortuitously knew the district—that The Feathers was the best one and she had taken the precaution of booking two rooms for the night.

This was progress and Polly and I in due course set out on our voyage of discovery.

We arrived in the late afternoon and decided that on the following morning we would visit the site.

In the meantime we were able to have a little conversation. First of all we talked to the chambermaid. She was a middle-aged woman who had worked at The Feathers when she was a girl, and now that her children were off her hands she came in the afternoons. She lived only a few yards from the hotel.

"So," I said, "you know the district well."

"Like the palm of my hand, Madam."

"You must remember the fire."

"At The Firs?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that wasn't so long ago. My goodness, what a blaze that was! It happened in the night."

"We read about it in the paper," said Polly. "It was quite a piece of news, that."

"It was a strange place. Used to give me the horrors every time I passed by."

"Why?" I asked.

"I dunno. That Mrs. Fletcher ... As a matter of fact, before I came back here ... just when my youngest was old enough not to need me at her heels all the time ... I worked there for a bit."

"Oh," I said faintly, fearing suddenly that she might have seen Lavinia and me.

"Best part of five years ago, that was."

I was relieved.

"Why did it give you the creeps?" asked Polly.

"I can't rightly say. There was something about it. It was all them old people. You get the feeling that they are all there waiting for death to come along and take them. It gives you the shivers in a way. People used to say they were put there because their families did not want them. And a funny lot they was ... and there'd always be one or two who had come there to have a baby ... on the quiet, if you know what I mean?"

I certainly knew what she meant.

"And the fire?" I prompted.

"Lit up the whole place. I was in bed and I said to my old man, 'Jacob, something's going on.' He said, 'Go to sleep,' and then he realized there was a funny smell and a sort of light in the room. 'Snakes alive,' he said, and he was out of that bed in a flash. He was out there helping them. The whole village seemed to be out there. Oh, it was a night, I can tell you."

"There were a lot of casualties, were there not?" I asked.

"Oh yes. Well, you see, this batty old man had started fires in one of the downstairs cupboards and the whole of the ground floor was well on the way to being destroyed before it spread about. They were all burned to death ... Mrs. Fletcher herself among them."

"All?" I asked. "Everyone?"

"Everyone in the place. It was too late to rescue them. Nobody knew the place was on fire until it was well on the way."

"What a terrible tragedy."

I did not sleep that night. I kept on thinking of Janine and how easily it might have been the end for Fleur, Lavinia and me.

The next day Polly and I made our way to The Firs. The gate, with "The Firs" on it in brass letters, was open. Memories rushed back as I went up the drive. The walls were surprisingly still standing in some parts. I looked through the windows onto the scorched pile.

Polly said, "It makes you think. I'll tell Eff we've got to be specially careful. Make sure all the fires are out before we go to bed. Watch out for candles. Them paraffin lamps could turn over as soon as you could say Jack Robinson ... and then it would be a case of God help you."

It was difficult to recognize the place. I tried to work out which room would have been Lavinia's and mine, which Mrs. Fletcher's sanctum on the first floor and Janine's room ... and that of Emmeline and the others.

It was impossible, and Polly thought we should not try to mount the remains of the staircase.

"You'd only have to take a look at that and it would collapse."

I was thoughtful and sad, remembering so much.

Polly said, "Here. Let's go. We've had enough of this."

It was as I stood with Polly among the debris that I heard quick footsteps coming along the drive. A middle-aged woman came into sight. I saw her before she saw us. Her face was pale and her eyes tragic. She stood for a few moments looking up at the grim remains. Then she saw us.

"Good morning," I said.

"Oh ... er ... good morning."

"Like us, you are looking at the burnt-out house."

She nodded. She looked as though she were fighting to conceal her emotion.

Then she said, "Did you have ... someone ... someone who perished?"

"I don't know," I replied. "There was a girl I used to know at school. Mrs. Fletcher was her aunt."

She nodded. "It was my daughter who was here. We didn't know she was. It wouldn't have mattered. She could have told me. She was so bright ... a lovely girl ... to go like that."

I guessed the story. It was similar to others. The daughter was going to have a baby and she had come here in secret and here she had died.

"Such a tragedy," said the woman. "It should never have happened."

"It doesn't really help us to come here," I replied.

She shook her head. "I have to. When I found out she was here and died in the fire ... I would have done anything ..."

Polly said, "Things like that happen sometimes. It's hard to know why. Makes you bitter. I know."

The woman looked enquiringly at her.

"My husband was lost at sea."

It is amazing how someone else's tragedy can make one's own seem lighter. The woman certainly looked a little comforted.

"Have you been here before?" I asked.

She nodded. "I can't seem to keep away. I just had to come."

"Do you know anything about the people who died?"

"Only what I've heard from others."

"There was a young girl with whom I was at school. I wonder if you knew whether she was saved."

"I wouldn't know. I only know that my daughter was there and it happened to her . .  . my girl."

We left her there contemplating the ruins as if by doing so she could bring her daughter back.

We walked slowly to The Feathers. There was a bench on a stretch of grass in front of a pond and on this sat two old men. They were not talking ... just staring into space.

Polly and I sat down on the seat and they regarded us with interest.

"Staying there?" said one of the men, taking his pipe from his lips and jerking it towards The Feathers.

"Yes," I replied.

"Nice place, eh?"

"Very nice."

"Used to do pretty well before the fire."

"That must have been terrifying."

One of the old men nodded. "Reckon it was the vengeance of the Lord," he said. "The lot they had up there. Sodom and Gomorrah ... that's what it was. They got their just deserts."

"I heard there were several old people there."

The old man fiercely tapped his head. "Not right up there. Offended against the Lord in some way. It was the punishment of the Lord, that's what I reckon. Her ... she was a queer one ... and all them women ... no better than they should be."

I was in no mood to enter into a theological discussion. I said, "Did you hear if there were any survivors?"

The two old men looked at each other. The religious fanatic said with satisfaction, "All burnt to a cinder ... taste of hell fire that's waiting for 'em."

Polly said ironically, "You're destined for the heavenly choir, I reckon."

"That's so, Missus. Good churchgoer all me life. Regular every Sunday ... night and morning."

"My goodness," said Polly. "You must have a good record. Wasn't there any time you did a bit of sinning?"

"I was brought up in the shadow of the Lord."

"Oh, I reckon the recording angel would have looked the other way when you got up to your little bits of mischief."