Delphine sprang to her feet. She began sprinting back towards the dunes. The wind sliced across her sopping arms and legs. She remembered her bag and the electric torch inside. Perhaps she could signal the Hall for help.

But who would be paying attention at this hour? They'd all be drunk, except Alice, who probably hadn't even heard of Morse.

There was nothing for it but to run over the dunes, across the marshes, through the woods, past the north shore of the lake and over the lawns. She had timed herself before. She would treat it as a challenge. If there was ever a day to beat her personal best, this was it.

'Do you know I think it's my first memory? Reaching for the beautiful amber paperweight on my Papa's writing desk, straining with my stumpy little arm and realising it wasn't quite lo '

'Doctor Lansley, you have to come now!'

Miss DeGroot cut off mid-flow. She stood by the globe in the corner, one arm slung round its latitudes like a chummy Atlas.

Everyone stared.

Delphine dripped onto the rug. She could feel stiff spikes of hair hanging down across her brow. Dun gloves of dry mud ran halfway up her forearms. She had fallen twice crossing the marshes. Her wet feet tingled in the heat of the hearth.

Mother, rising: 'Delphine, what on earth is the meaning of '

'Doctor Lansley has to come to the beach!'

Miss DeGroot's mouth shifted into a smile. She looked at the other guests, delighted.

Dr Lansley, from the settee: 'How dare you burst in here and start making demands of me!'

'You have to come!'

'I will do no such thing!'

'Mr Kung is dying!'

'Get out of this room this instant!' Lansley stubbed out his cigarette. He gathered his hearing aid and wires in one hand and rose. 'Look at the state of you!'

'He's dying!'

'Do not test me, child.'

'What's wrong with you?' She cast around at the other adults. 'He's going to die!'

'Delphine.' Mother's voice was thin and firm. 'You have ten seconds to explain yourself.'

'He's in the sea!' She looked to Professor Carmichael. 'Please, Professor. Tell them! Tell the Doctor he has to come!'

The Professor frowned. 'Steady there, Titus.'

'Shut up.' Dr Lansley advanced round the coffee table, moustache writhing.

'Wait,' said Miss DeGroot. 'Give the girl a chance.'

'Miss Venner.' The Professor eyed her carefully. 'Is this a prank?'

'No!' She threw her arms out. 'Daddy dragged him out of the sea. They're down on the beach now and they need a doctor or he's going to die!'

Invoking Daddy brought them all up short. Dr Lansley hesitated. Everyone looked at him.

He glared. 'Is this true?'

She met his gaze, glaring right back. 'If he dies, it'll be your fault.'

Lansley's chin retreated into his neck. He looked at the Professor.

'Ring for Mrs Hagstrom. Have her start the car and meet me outside the front door in three minutes. We'll take the horse track. Patience ' he looked to Miss DeGroot ' fetch towels and my coat off the rack. I'll get my medical bag. You,' he shot a gloved finger at Delphine, 'be waiting in the car when I arrive. You will give clear, concise directions when asked, otherwise you will remain absolutely silent, is that clear?'

Delphine looked into the fire.

Professor Carmichael prodded the bell button. 'Had I better come?'

'No,' said Lansley and Miss DeGroot together.

The Professor's shoulders slumped. He trudged back to his chair.

'Right.' Dr Lansley grabbed a bottle of brandy on his way out the door. He stopped, looked back at Delphine. 'I pray, for your sake, this is not a lie.'

Mother stood very straight. 'Did Daddy ask for anything else?'

Delphine shook her head.

'Well . . . ' Mother looked away. 'Be careful, please. Off you go.'

Delphine hesitated, just long enough to indicate she was leaving of her own accord.

The car rattled and jounced along the track, branches clatter-scraping off the bonnet. The rain-softened earth made the going a little easier, but even in the dark Mrs Hagstrom was a bracingly fearless driver, accelerating with a blind faith that bordered on zealotry. Delphine had stared the first time she had seen the housekeeper behind the wheel, knuckles shining as she swung the car out of the garage, but no one else at the Hall found it the least bit remarkable. Mr Garforth said that during the Great War, Mrs Hagstrom had driven a bus.

Dr Lansley sat in the front, black bag on his knees. He took a cigarette from a fresh packet, tapped the end against the dashboard, then slid a matchbook from his breast pocket. In the back, Delphine sat hunched and malevolent.

Mrs Hagstrom pulled up at the top of a stone slipway.

'Turn the car round then follow me,' said Dr Lansley, climbing out the passenger door.

Delphine saw Daddy a way off, still knelt over the body.

'Hey!' she called. He turned and waved both arms. She ran to him, Lansley following, Mrs Hagstrom bringing up the rear.

As they got close, Daddy yelled: 'He won't wake up! There's water in his lungs and he won't wake up!'

'Move,' said Lansley, making shooing gestures. He and Daddy locked eyes. Daddy stepped back. 'You,' Lansley pointed to Mrs Hagstrom, 'roll up a towel and give it to me.' He knelt down beside Mr Kung and popped open his medical bag. Delphine hung back, watching.

Lansley took a small red torch from his bag. He grabbed Mr Kung's face and shone the light in his mouth and eyes. He pushed an index finger deep into Mr Kung's throat and moved it round. Mr Kung jerked and something thick like egg white came out. Lansley pulled at Mr Kung's tongue. Mrs Hagstrom handed Lansley the rolled-up coat; he stuffed it underneath Mr Kung's shoulder blades, then pulled Mr Kung's head backwards.

'Give me some bloody room.' Lansley stood. He grasped Mr Kung's arms by the elbows, lifting them over the head. He counted: 'One, two.' He lowered them to either side of the chest, pressing them against the rib cage. After two seconds, he lifted them again and repeated the procedure. He turned to Mrs Hagstrom. 'Get the smelling salts from my bag.' To Daddy: 'Pour him a capful of brandy.' Delphine braced for her instruction but Lansley went back to pumping the arms and counting.

Mrs Hagstrom held a little bottle between thumb and forefinger. She scrutinised the label.

'Is this it?'

'Yes,' said Lansley. 'Go on then.'

Mrs Hagstrom knelt with a grunt. She pulled out the stopper and wafted the bottle beneath Mr Kung's bloody nose. Mr Kung's chest was moving. Delphine heard his throat rasp wetly.

For a minute or two, Mrs Hagstrom swayed the smelling salts while Dr Lansley lifted and lowered Mr Kung's arms. Daddy stood on the periphery, his teeth chattering, capful of brandy quivering in his upturned hand.

Daddy said: 'Is it working?'

Dr Lansley hissed through his teeth. To Mrs Hagstrom, he said: 'Get a towel. Dry him as best you can and then get another one and cover him.'

Mrs Hagstrom unfurled a towel and began rubbing at Mr Kung's legs. As she worked upwards, Mr Kung's trousers rode up, exposing pale, hairless ankles. Delphine winced. She wanted to call out, to shout to him to wake up.

Lansley lifted the arms, and Mrs Hagstrom leant over and wiped Mr Kung's face. Most of the blood came off, leaving an oily sheen. Mrs Hagstrom threw the towel aside. She laid the second one over Mr Kung's belly and legs. Mr Kung's feet poked out the bottom, big toe bulging mushroom-like through a hole in his black socks.

Lansley went on pumping Mr Kung's arms. After a while, Mrs Hagstrom stood back; with Daddy and Delphine, she watched and waited. Lansley shook his head.

'It's no good. This man needs a hospital.'

Mrs Hagstrom rubbed her hands together. She glanced at Daddy.

'Shall we, sir?'

Daddy set the cap of brandy on the ground, twisting it into the sand. Lansley stepped back. Daddy grabbed Mr Kung under the armpits. Mrs Hagstrom and Lansley took a leg each.

Mrs Hagstrom turned to Delphine. Sand crusted her upper lip.

'Run ahead to the car. Open the doors.'

Delphine took off across the beach. She spread her numb arms and sand rolled beneath her. She was running through no-man's land at midnight; to the east and west, Vickers guns and MG08s cackled and spat. If she flagged for even an instant, thousands of rounds would shred her legs. The thought relaxed her. She had the queerest feeling that if she closed her eyes and went limp, she would fly.

She leapt onto the slipway and scrambled to the car. The handles were freezing. She opened all four doors and slumped against the bonnet. Looking back across the beach, she saw the three adults with Mr Kung slung between them like a drunk. Dr Lansley had his heavy medical bag under one arm and Mr Kung's bare foot under the other. Mrs Hagstrom marched hard and straight, leaving deep black footprints. Daddy had his eyes closed. Together they threw a crazy, gangling blue shadow, a giant landcrab rampaging beneath the glare of the full moon.

They reached the car and bundled Mr Kung into the back. Daddy bent over, wheezing. Mrs Hagstrom dropped into the driver's seat. Dr Lansley got into the back, Mr Kung's head in his lap.

'Hospital. Now.'

The engine growled throatily, then the car lurched and began accelerating up the slipway. Delphine watched it buck as it hit the first rut, headlamps making the trees dance and flash. The sound of the motor faded. She and Daddy were alone.

The wind had died. The ocean was calm as a plate.

Daddy staggered down the slipway. His shirt was open to his stomach. Delphine wanted to speak, but her mouth was dry. She walked in his deep footsteps.

Daddy walked back to where Mr Kung had lain. He took the capful of brandy. He held it up. In the moonlight, his hair gleamed like chains. He drank the brandy, picked up the bottle and began walking towards the dunes.

Delphine walked over and picked up her crab hook. Mr Kung had left three dents his buttocks, back, and head. She hacked at the sand. Her skull ached. She thought she might cry, then the feeling passed, like a sneeze.

She watched the sea for a while, glassy, replete. When she turned inland, Daddy was a way off, standing over Mr Kung's shoes.

He stooped, pushed the shoes aside and picked up the oblong of crumpled newspaper beneath them. He turned the paper over in his hands. He found a seam. He peeled away a layer and let it fall. The wind caught it, skimming it towards the sea. Daddy peeled a second layer, a third.

When he rose, Daddy held a book: small, grey-brown. He looked at it from several angles, as if unsure how to make it work. He looked like he might drop it, then he lifted the brandy bottle to his mouth. Brandy spilled over his lips, running down his cheeks, his neck, following the line of his collarbone, soaking into the stiff dark hair around his heart. He poured until the bottle shone clear. He ran the back of his sleeve across his face, then tucked the book beneath his armpit.

Delphine watched him trudge away. The beach was quiet. She felt hollow, papery. She remembered the sting of the brandy Miss DeGroot had given her and wished she could feel that burn now. She wished Mother was there, to fuss and brush sand off her clothes and lead her safely home.

A piece of newspaper tickled her ankle. She looked down.

As her eyes focused, she saw it was not newspaper after all, but a crumpled page of densely-scrawled notes and crude diagrams. She grabbed the corner. Numbers and English words stood out against a mass of squirly symbols were they Chinese? She was so exhausted, she could barely read. The wind snatched at the paper. One word caught her eye, repeated again and again across the page: DELLAPESTE.

DELLAPESTE.

DELLAPESTE.

INTERLUDE 1.

June 1935 The man known as Ivan Propp attached brass electrodes to a tiny, shivering, hairless creature, and prepared to transmit.

A candle burnt in a tin holder on his desk. He poured himself a second glass of 1865 calvados and dragged the dust sheet off the rest of the apparatus. The little chubmouse, blind and pink, scratched at the walls of its glass prison with its antler nubs, mewling to its brothers and sisters in the cage on top of the cupboard. Ivan sipped his calvados and grimaced. Sending a cross-channel wire was une activite tres desagreable.

He found himself thinking in French more and more these days. Russian came to him only when he wrote, and the language of his homeland even less only when he made a conscious effort, and sometimes on waking, and as he passed into sleep, as if that part of his life had already crossed the threshold and was waiting for him to join it.

He lifted the black earpiece to the side of his head. His index finger hesitated over the Morse key. Inside the larger glass partition of the telegraph apparatus, the mother chubmouse scrunched her eyes shut. She was the size of a Christmas pudding. Two patches had been shaved into the sandy fur on her fat back. Electrodes winked in the candlelight. She chirruped he thought it had started, waited for the beeps in his ear, but it was just pre-message anxiety. These fleshy, docile creatures were not so insensible. They knew what was coming.

Just as he was reaching for his pocket watch, the mother chubmouse's jaw began to tick. In his ear, the ready signal cycled: MESSAGE BEGINS . . . MESSAGE BEGINS . . .

He took a pencil and transcribed. As the message continued, the mother chubmouse whined and bucked and stropped her antlers against the glass, overcome by a weird, disembodied torment. The electrodes read her discomfort as discrete units of current a dot or a dash and the equipment beside her compartment converted this into sound.

He spent a moment translating.

GIRL STILL MISSING STOP REQUEST MEETING TO DISCUSS STOP GUNS NEEDED URGENT STOP KIND REGARDS AS STOP.

He reread the message, then screwed it up. Glancing towards the empty fireplace, he briefly contemplated the journey. The calvados had dampened the knifing pain in the small of his back, but as he placed his palm on the desk and tried to rise several ancillary pains replaced it. He dropped the balled message in his ashtray and touched a match to the top.

In its glass compartment, the baby chubmouse flinched at the sudden, flaring light. He waited till the message had burnt away to black flakes. He drained his glass, then placed a finger over the Morse key.

Pardonnez-moi, mon enfant.

He began to tap. With each stroke, the hairless chubmouse pup convulsed, as his finger completed the circuit and sent electricity through its plump and wrinkled body. In the box alongside, the mother chubmouse lay inert it was not her child.

But he could picture a creature, in a land so distant yet so dizzyingly close, writhing at each stab of the key.

MESSAGE BEGINS . . . MESSAGE BEGINS . . .

Ah, what agony to be a mother. To be so awake, to love so honestly. For what was love, if not feeling another's suffering as your own?