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The woman who had welcomed him to the guesthouse had kept up a lengthy conversation with him while she’d busied herself with organising his key. His luggage – what there was of it – was taken up to his room by a tall but scrawny lad she called Jimmy. He remembered now her direct query as to his regiment and rank when he signed the register. At the time he’d thought she was being fastidious but now he realised she was not so cautious about the privacy of that register.

Mary continued talking over his thoughts as she poured steaming tea the burnished colour of toffee from an enormous pot she carried around like a pet. ‘Can’t help but feel very proud of our returning soldiers, Cap, er, Mr Blake. You all need thanking and spoiling. Too many of you left behind, of course.’

He nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here in the north. I’ve come as far from the French battlefields as I could.’ He smiled a gentle dismissal.

He sipped the tea and it was surely a confirmation that the war was over. No tea in any trench tasted this good. He sighed with genuine pleasure, feeling his shoulders relax slightly. Harry tucked into his breakfast slowly, chewing each small mouthful diligently. Like other soldiers being demobbed, he had been warned not to be overly greedy about food or its availability.

He worked at his chewing for the next five minutes in silent pleasure before Mary was back. ‘Ready for a top-up, Mr Blake?’

‘Please,’ he said, pushing his cup and saucer forward. He saw her note his half-eaten meal and frown. ‘Er, forgive me, Mary. I’m used to neither so much food, nor such feasting. The most we could count on in the trenches was some fruit cake or chocolate from home.’

That seemed to trigger a thought as she refreshed his cup of tea. ‘Oh, you must visit the Rowntree’s factory while you’re here. Just about everyone in York works in one of the chocolate or confectionery factories. York and our chocolate factories were very important to the troops, you know. We sent over two special Christmas tins, as I understand it – hope you received yours?’

‘I did,’ he assured, ‘and I’ll certainly take a look at the factory.’ Maybe he could find Kitty easily enough that way.

Despite the guilt of unfinished food on his plate when there were people probably starving, he took his chance and slipped away, taking the steps two at a time to get to his room on the third floor. He retrieved Tom’s belongings and made his way back down to the guesthouse’s reception counter.

‘Good morning, Captain Blake,’ the owner, Mrs Potter, greeted him. ‘I hope you slept well?’

‘I don’t believe I’ve had a more peaceful night in many years. Er, Mrs Potter, I’m a civilian now and very glad to go by the simple title of Mister, if you don’t mind.’ He could see her surprise erupting. ‘This is only about me trying to leave behind unnecessary reminders of the war,’ he explained.

‘I understand, sir, of course.’

Harry could tell she didn’t comprehend and perhaps she was used to older men insisting on being addressed by their rank.

He shifted topics. ‘I have to visit someone in York. The address is Eldon Street. Can I walk there?’

‘Eldon Street?’ She searched her memory. She stopped young Jimmy, passing carrying suitcases. ‘Jimmy, have you heard of Eldon Street?’

‘It’s up by the institute. You know, in Paynleys, near St Thomas’s.’

The nose twisted. ‘Ah, yes. Thank you.’ She returned her gaze to Harry. ‘It’s not a very salubrious area, Mr Blake. There’s that saying,’ she said, pursing her lips as though thinking of something distasteful, ‘the rich man in his castle prefers not to have the poor man at his gate.’ There was a question lingering in her gaze and he took a moment to decide how to answer it.

‘Better to take a hackney, then? Although I fancy stretching my legs.’

‘Too far to walk, sir. It’s still part of the slum . . . er, an area of chronic poverty but, to be fair, it’s perhaps more a working-class area these days. There’s talk of changing the name to The Groves. Um, is this —’

Harry pretended not to hear the query coming and spoke across her. ‘Could Jimmy order me a cab, please?’

‘Of course. Jimmy!’ The lad reappeared, rosy-cheeked and eager. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen. ‘A hackney for Mr Blake, please.’ Jimmy sped off again outside the main doors. ‘He’s a good boy.’ She smiled. ‘Irish – his family originally from Dublin, I gather, but the famine sent them all scurrying for Northern England. Comes from the slums at Walmgate. Jimmy was orphaned, along with a host of sisters and brothers. His father was killed early on in the war and Jimmy lied about his age and tried to join up so he could send his wages home, but the army had got wise to boys lying about their ages. Then his mother died just before Christmas.’

Harry blinked, disconcerted by the easy way she exchanged this information.

‘They’re all living with an aunt now but she’s got plenty of her own, as I understand it. I gave Jimmy a job out of the goodness of my heart.’ She gave a sigh as if it were all too much for her mind to deal with.

He diverted her to another topic. ‘Mrs Potter, your waitress suggested I visit the chocolate factory. How would I go about that?’

‘Ah, well, Mr Blake, there are proper tours you can take. It’s quite splendid, I hear, with lots of special and clever machinery. You even get a bag of samples to take away with you.’

‘Sounds most agreeable,’ he admitted, a plan beginning to formulate. ‘So I just turn up at the factory?’

‘I think they run on the hour . . . something like that.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Potter. See you this evening.’

‘Enjoy your day, sir.’

Outside Jimmy had hailed a cab that was just arriving. He tipped his cap to Harry, who then pushed ten shillings into the boy’s hand. ‘Jimmy,’ he said as the cab arrived and he stared firmly into the lad’s shocked expression, ‘if you breathe a word of what I’ve just given you, I will hunt you down. Do you understand?’