The Secret of Summerhayes. Merryn Allingham

      Gilbert was at the front door of the apartment before she’d had time to wave Molly Dumbrell off the premises and talk to Mr Ripley about the morning ahead. She felt flustered and irritated. It was a kind gesture to drive over from Amberley, but it hadn’t been necessary. The walk there was two miles at most and she had little to carry, but here he was already, under her feet and pacing the worn hall carpet. He was in the way of Molly and her brush and the two of them did a small dance around each other. The girl had turned an unusually bright shade of red and, for a moment, May’s unfathomable remark seemed to make sense. But in another, Beth had dismissed it. Village gossip, she thought, and rushed into her bedroom to collect handbag and hairbrush. Through the window, she saw the Bentley parked on the front drive, its silver bodywork gleaming in the morning sun.

      ‘Ralph can’t wait to get started,’ Gilbert threw at her as she ran back into the hall. ‘He’s already at his desk.’ His joviality was edged with impatience; having his son ensconced at Amberley must mean a good deal to him. ‘He seems happier now that he’s on home territory.’

      She thought it unlikely but stopped herself from saying so. Instead, she sped past him to the kitchen and hurriedly packed away the breakfast dishes. Ripley had followed her and stood in the doorway.

      ‘Mrs Summer has had her pills,’ she told him, ‘but could you put the bottle back?’ She handed him the Veronal tablets. ‘Top shelf of the bathroom cabinet. And don’t worry about lunch. I’ll be home in good time.’