Her only regular visitor was Jess, whose grandmother had been a maid at Barton House during and after the war years. This servant/mistress relationship appeared to have been handed down through the Derbyshire family, first to Jess’s father, and on his death to Jess herself. Although neither was paid for what they did, it seemed they were at Lily’s beck and call whenever anything went wrong, and even supplied her with free food from the farm to eke out her pension.

It was a state of affairs that Lily’s daughter, Madeleine, apparently took for granted. Busy in London with a husband and an eleven-year-old son, she relied on Jess to perform a service that she couldn’t do herself. Yet she made no secret of her dislike of Jess; nor did Jess hide hers in return. The reasons for the rift were unknown, but Winterbourne Barton’s sympathies were definitely with Lily’s daughter. Madeleine was an attractive forty-year-old who, unlike her mother and Jess, had an open, friendly personality and was popular in the village. There was also a general suspicion that Jess’s motives in making herself indispensable to a wealthy woman were questionable.

Lily was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in June of 2003. She was seventy years old, which made her comparatively young for the disease, but it was still in its early stages and, barring brief bouts of forgetfulness, there was no reason why she shouldn’t remain independent for some time to come. Confusion led her to stray during the autumn, and several of her neighbours found her wandering in Winterbourne Barton. As no one had been told she had Alzheimer’s, and she spoke quite sensibly when they pointed her in the direction of where she lived, they assumed it was mild eccentricity-only bad when the wind was north-northwest.

Her condition deteriorated markedly over Christmas and the New Year. On four occasions in January she let herself in through unlocked back doors while householders were watching television in the evening, and tiptoed upstairs. She used their towels and toothbrushes to wash her face and hands and clean her teeth at their basins, then climbed, fully clothed, between their sheets and fell asleep. She reacted aggressively when she was discovered, but was quickly calmed by a cup of tea and a biscuit.

Still claiming to be unaware that Lily was seriously ill-despite her dishevelled appearance and bizarre behaviour-the four householders drove her home each time and took it no further. They described her as rude and unpleasant, and said she insisted on being returned immediately to Barton House, claiming the only help she wanted was Jess Derbyshire’s or Dr. Peter Coleman’s. She dismissed her rescuers as soon she reached her back door.

The incidents were discussed in the village, but the consensus appeared to be that it was better not to interfere. If they didn’t get the rough edge of Lily’s tongue, they’d certainly get the rough edge of Jess Derbyshire’s. Had Peter Coleman been around, they’d have raised the matter with him, but he was on holiday and wasn’t expected back till the end of January. A message was left on Madeleine’s answerphone, but she, too, was away, and no one felt confident about suggesting to Peter Coleman’s locum that Mrs. Wright was behaving oddly.

Afterwards, the finger of blame was pointed firmly at Jess. How could Winterbourne Barton know that she hadn’t been near Lily since November? She’d fawned over the woman for years, knew better than anyone that Lily’s mental condition was fragile, then abandoned her without a word when the consequences of Alzheimer’s became too demanding. Why hadn’t she told anyone?

Yet it was Jess who saved Lily’s life. At eleven o’clock at night on the third Friday in January, she found her barely alive and dressed only in a nightdress beside the Barton House fishpond. Not strong enough to carry Lily to the back door, and with no mobile signal to call for help, she reversed her Land Rover across the lawn, hoisted Lily into the back and drove her back to Barton Farm, where she phoned for a doctor.

There were no plaudits, only more suspicion. What was Jess doing in Lily’s garden at that time of night? Why didn’t she use the landline in the house? Why had she driven Lily to Barton Farm instead of the hospital? Why call in social services so quickly? Why accuse everyone else of neglect when it was she who’d neglected Lily the most shamefully? Conspiracy theories abounded, particularly when it became clear that Lily had secretly reassigned enduring power of attorney from her daughter to her solicitor. Jess was assumed to have been behind the decision.

In Madeleine’s absence, Lily was sectioned for her own safety and placed in care over the weekend while efforts were made to contact her solicitor. Madeleine rushed down the following week on her return from holiday, only to discover that her mother’s fate was out of her hands. Lily’s solicitor had wasted no time in moving her to an expensive nursing-home, nor of announcing his intention to sell Barton House and the family heirlooms to cover the fees.

Depending on whom you believed, Madeleine was either a cold-hearted bitch who wanted her mother dead in order to inherit the house before it was sacrificed to Lily’s care, or she was so uninformed about her mother’s condition and precarious financial position that Lily’s catastrophic decline and subsequent revelations of poverty came as a terrible shock. Being cynical, I found such ignorance hard to accept, although Winterbourne Barton pointed to the weekly allowance that Lily had been paying her daughter since she turned eighteen. Why go on with it if she hadn’t wanted Madeleine to believe she was better off than she was?

In Lily’s case, poverty was relative to the sale of Barton House. While it remained in her estate, her income was insufficient to meet her needs. Sold, it would realize upwards of £1.5 million. Not unreasonably, Madeleine resisted the sale. Her mother could die tomorrow or live for another twenty years, but to sell the family home on a gamble of twenty years was precipitate. A battle for control ensued between Madeleine and Lily’s solicitor. The solicitor offered a compromise. If the house was let, and all the income from the remaining stocks and shares was diverted to Lily’s care, then he would postpone the sale.

Which was where I came in as Barton House’s first tenant. I knew nothing of its recent history as I stooped to wash my hands, and if I had I wouldn’t have stayed. It was a place of anguish…

Extracts from notes, filed as “CB16-19/05/04”

…I remember a woman in Freetown who roamed the street outside my compound and shouted at herself. I thought she was deaf as well as deranged until I was told that she’d hidden under her house when a band of rebels came to her village. The dozen fighters massacred everyone, including the woman’s husband and children, and only left when the smell of the rotting bodies became unbearable. The mother’s response was to berate herself publicly for being alive.

…I often think of her. The length of time she lay under her house-motionless, terrified, silent-was about as long as I spent in the Baghdad cellar. Did she talk to herself to stay sane? And, if so, what about? Did she argue the merits of saving her own skin against leaving her children to perish? Is that when her loop of madness began?

…There’s a scream inside my head that won’t go away. Perhaps it’s in everyone’s head. Perhaps it’s what made the woman in Freetown shout. Why does no one care about me?