But, now, he had to leave Molly to return to London, and he didn’t like that she looked so terribly sad.

‘I don’t mean to look forlorn,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I think I’m just worrying that I’ll be useless and they’ll give me the sack.’

‘You know that isn’t going to happen,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. The lights on the car aren’t very good, so I have to go fairly slowly across the marshes or I might end up in a ditch. The heater doesn’t work either!’

Molly flung her arms around him and he breathed in the sweet smell of her Blue Grass perfume. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but it was too soon for such statements.

‘Write to me,’ he said instead. ‘And don’t let the barman or the chef lead you astray.’

He jumped into the car then and coasted down the hill until the engine started, waving one hand to her.

When he glanced in the mirror just before turning the corner she was still standing outside the George and waving, despite the cold wind.

‘I love you, Molly Heywood,’ he said aloud. ‘And, before long, I’m going to marry you and make sure you never look sad again.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘You’ve finished the bedrooms?’ Mrs Bridgenorth asked as Molly came down the stairs carrying the carpet sweeper and a basket of cleaning materials.

‘Yes, all done,’ Molly replied. ‘Room six had spilt something sticky on the carpet, but I managed to get it off. Goodness knows what it was, but it smelled like cough mixture.’

‘It never ceases to amaze me what people drop in their rooms, what they leave behind or try to steal,’ said Mrs Bridgenorth with a little ripple of laughter. ‘You’re so quick, Molly. I thought at first you weren’t doing the rooms properly, but I’ve made quite a few lightning checks and they are first class. Well done.’

Molly glowed. She was into her third week at the George now, and she loved it. She’d been given a pink-and-white striped uniform dress, an apron and a little matching stiffened hair band with a lace edge for her chambermaid duties, and she so enjoyed being dressed for the part. For bar work and reception duties, she had a black dress with a white lace collar and cuffs, and when she was waiting on tables she added a frilly white apron. Both dresses fitted perfectly and looked nice, especially the striped one.

Everything about the job was wonderful. The hotel was always warm, thanks to old Albert, who came in early in the mornings and cleared the grates, and lay and lit fires in all the main rooms. The guests’ rooms had electric fires fitted into the fireplaces and there was even a small portable one in her room in the attic. The food was lovely, too, quite the best she’d ever eaten.

Her favourite job was waiting on people at breakfast as, often, they chatted and told her where they’d come from and what their plans for the day were. She liked serving lunch much less, as some of the people could be quite rude. Being a barmaid in the evening was good, although Ernest, the head barman, was a bit stuck-up. He’d told her five years ago he used to be the head cocktail waiter at the Savoy in London and only left because his then fiancée was a teacher in the junior school here in Rye and they wanted to get married.

Working on reception was interesting, as she got to greet the new guests and resolve any problems they might have. There was also quite a lot of work organizing wedding receptions and private parties, putting on special buffets or sit-down meals and dealing with the music and flower arrangements. She thought that, in time, this would become her favourite role, but there was so much to learn it would be a while before she was able to handle it all alone.

This coming Sunday, she had the day off and Charley was coming down to see her. Spring had finally arrived and, unless it decided to pour with rain, Molly thought she would pack a picnic for them and they could have it in Camber Castle.

Cassie had mentioned Camber Castle in her journal a few times. She’d jotted down that it was built by Henry VIII as a defence for one of his Cinque Ports, but also that people claimed Anne Boleyn had been locked up in it by the king when he grew tired of her. Mrs Bridgenorth said she doubted that was true, but people liked to make up interesting stories about places. It was just a ruin now; sheep sheltered from the sea wind inside its walls. Molly had walked out across the marsh to it the previous week on her day off. She’d eaten her sandwiches in the shelter of its walls, then climbed up on to what was left of the battlements to survey the countryside.

It had been a lovely spring day. Gorse had sprung into flower all over the marsh and the sweet perfume from its bright-yellow flowers hung in the still air. She loved the look of the black-faced sheep, apparently a much-prized breed known worldwide as Romney Marsh sheep, and lambing was in full swing. She saw twin lambs that day which could only have been born minutes before her arrival, so little and wobbly and utterly adorable.

Perched up on the castle battlements, the sound of curlews and gulls filling the air, Molly had realized that she was truly happy, perhaps the happiest she’d ever been. She was coming to terms now with the death of Constance, and was even a little glad that any suffering her dear friend had gone through was over. She was no longer brooding on the unfairness of her dismissal from Bourne & Hollingsworth. Dilys was back in her life again – only yesterday she had had a letter from her – and she loved her new job and home. On top of that was Charley, who never failed to telephone at six on a Friday, as he’d promised, and so far she’d had three letters from him, too.

If it hadn’t been for her sorrow about Cassie and thinking what more she could do about finding Petal, Molly’s would be the perfect life. But even Mr and Mrs Bridgenorth seemed to understand how important these things were to her.

She had been intending to pick an appropriate moment to tell them what had happened, to see if she could enlist their help but, as it turned out, Mr Bridgenorth asked her some questions on her third day with them which led naturally into the subject.

Molly had been asked to take a tray of coffee and buttered toast up to the office for Mr Bridgenorth that morning, as he was working on the hotel’s accounts.

‘Hullo, Molly,’ he said as she came in. ‘How are you settling in?’

He was a tall, slender man with very bony features, not unattractive, but she’d been told he tended to be ill at ease with people, so she was quite surprised at his cheery interest in her.

Trudy, one of the cleaners, who had worked here for years, had told her the background of most of the staff at the hotel. She said that Mr Bridgenorth was an accountant and that, when he married Evelyn, who had been brought up in the hotel trade, he had agreed to handle the business side of the hotel, as long as she took care of the day-to-day running of it.

‘I’m settling in very well, thank you, sir,’ Molly had replied, putting the tray down on his desk. ‘I’m finding it all so interesting, and it’s super to be in such a warm, comfortable place.’

‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘My wife and I visited Constance a couple of times in Whitechapel, and we both felt chilled to the bone. How did you get to know her?’

‘I found her address in a book after my friend Cassie was killed back in Somerset. I wrote to Constance, because it was clear they had been close friends,’ she began.

‘Oh my goodness!’ Mr Bridgenorth had exclaimed, looking astounded. ‘I had no idea your connection was so dramatic. Please, go on. Tell me the whole story.’

Molly gave him an abbreviated version of the story, knowing she ought to get back to work.