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Not from himself, a small inner voice assured. And that voice was right. Her father had never stopped grieving over the loss of Mae, and he had begun his decline from the moment of her passing. Resigned and sad, he had let life happen around him, never fully engaging again and perhaps his one final thought – Fleur hoped a happy one – was that his daughter had finally found someone she liked so much she wanted to introduce them.

She had not been ready for the gathered crowd on the day of the funeral. They had lined the length of Port Road, waiting for her father’s hearse. As it rolled sombrely past, the women dipped their gazes and the men removed their hats to cast a silent nod to a man who had served their community faithfully and with a generosity she hoped now shone through her.

It was why she was here now. Her father would expect it of her.

Fleur found herself facing the only person she had ever hated. Hate was not a word that Mae Appleby had tolerated and she’d taught her daughter never to use it, but Fleur couldn’t help herself; she sat across from the pale-faced woman who had not lost her sneer.

‘Come to gloat?’ Irma asked, sitting back in the rickety chair. She was being held in custody until the trial, but somehow didn’t seem affected by the grim surroundings.

Fleur bristled. ‘No, I brought you some clothes.’

‘I won’t need many, Fleur. They have to prove it all, and they won’t be able to.’

Fleur nodded, schooling her features to neutral. She was determined not to be baited.

‘I suppose you’ll be running off to your father’s solicitor now.’

‘Hadn’t crossed my mind, Irma.’ Fleur sighed. ‘I told you, I’m not motivated by money in the way that you are.’

‘Then leave it all alone. It’s mine.’

‘You didn’t earn a cent of it.’

‘But I shall spend every cent when I get out of here.’

‘I doubt you’ll be getting out,’ Fleur warned, helpless to stop herself. ‘A murder charge is as serious as it gets.’

‘That’s on you. You put me here.’

Fleur had to ball her fists beneath the table to find her control. ‘Irma, it will go better for you if you simply confess. The prosecutor might be willing to go for manslaughter rather than murder.’

‘I thought you’d want to see me hang, Fleur,’ Irma replied, surprisingly casual in how vicious she was.

She might as well have stuck a blade into Fleur’s belly; it felt like a brutal attack. ‘No,’ she stammered. ‘That’s not what I want.’

Irma shrugged again. ‘Then why do this to me?’

‘My father’s death was deliberate—’

‘You’re like a stuck needle on a seventy-eight! The man was near death anyway.’

‘But you have no right to be his judge and executioner.’

‘I don’t believe I was.’

‘We both know you poisoned him.’

Irma folded her arms on the table. ‘Have you ever wondered if that’s what Henry might have wanted?’

‘No. I think I know him as well, if not much better, than you do. He would not do that to me.’

‘Why is it always about you, Fleur?’

‘Because I was all he had. You had long ceased holding interest for him.’ Fleur looked shocked by the cruel words she’d just said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

Irma actually laughed. ‘Yes, you did. But he had lost interest in everything – including you.’

Fleur swallowed. ‘He didn’t have the opportunity to put his affairs in order.’