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himself lay upon my father’s bed. There was no doubting though that the face was my father’s and a great choking sob rose from deep within me. The sheet fell from my hand and covered the face again. John stepped forward and was beside me in three great strides but I was like stone. Whilst a great surge of sorrow shook me, I was not yet done; for now, there was no escaping the terrible lies that had been spoken, excepting human error, a farcical mistake, unkind lies. John tried to steer me from the bed and one foot followed under the weight of his guiding hands, but I shook him off.
    “ Imogen, really, you don’t need to do this.”
    “ On the contrary, John, I absolutely must do this,” I retorted.
            My tone was glacial, a shield of distance for the grim task ahead. With renewed courage, I gripped the corner of the sheet and gently pulled it back revealing his nightshirt, unbuttoned and pulled back across his shoulders. Familiar and strong, they were diminished little in death from those that had carried me as a tiny child fast down the stairs of this very house, taking my breath away and making me squeal with delight. I inched the sheet towards his chest, feeling vindicated by the contours of the linen.
            As I raised the sheet, his chest appeared flat beneath his nightshirt and I felt somewhat calmer, as I leant forward to pull aside his nightshirt. As I did so, a fresh band of crêpe bandages were revealed and my first thought was what injury had caused him to be dressed so. The shock to my heart was for his manner of death; perhaps he had not died peacefully but been murdered in his bed and dressed by his killer. Without thinking, I pulled at the loosened bandages to see his wound, ready to call out to the dunderhead of an Inspector who, instead of searching for my father’s killer, was spreading lies about him.
            As the bandages came away from my father’s chest, it took me a while to focus on what I was seeing. Flat and small, bound under the crêpe bandages, were two lumps on my father’s chest. I drew in breath sharply and peered hard. More than answer any questions, the ambiguity of their slight feminine form only made their positive identification more difficult. Whatever error had been made, it could not be corrected by this evidence. I closed my eyes and threw the sheet to the end of the bed.
            My father’s nightshirt was covering his groin, but his legs had been drawn wide apart at the hips and his knees were bent. He resembled a frog pinned for dissection and the comparison with my own close inspection made me feel suddenly intrusive. Aware at last of my husband stood behind me, the fact that strangers had picked over my father so, had arranged his body thus and had inspected him like a specimen, made me feel sick. Struggling with the urge to run from the room and the desire to know the truth, I lifted my father’s nightshirt and both wished to see and not to see his manhood. The light only made it harder to make out, but what wasn’t there could not be forced into being by better light. There was nothing there. In the thick, dark triangle of my father’s pubic hair there was not one small protruding piece of flesh that could be mistaken for anything else. I stared at the place where my father’s member should have been and I felt my skin drain of all its colour. My eyes prickled with the effort of not blinking, but closing my eyes to do so might break the spell and I didn’t know if I could stand to face the revelation yet.
    “ My God! It’s true!” John’s voice was loud behind me and I jumped, my eyes darting around, looking for any truth I could fix on to keep me standing; I did not dare trust the walls in case they weren’t solid or the light, in case it burnt my eyes. My ears were ringing with John’s words. It was true. It was true. I felt light-headed and sick, and I staggered past John, pushing aside his entreating arms. I