‘Good afternoon, everybody,’ Judith began. She deliberately paused while the room settled down, very much in the manner of a primary-school head teacher, severe but kind. ‘How lovely to see such a packed house at this very special event. Elizabeth Lovell needs no introduction, but to those of you who missed her the last time she was here, I should explain that the gentleman sitting next to her is her husband, Sid, and although he won’t be taking questions himself, he will be assisting her during the next hour. Elizabeth is unsighted, so his first job is to connect her with you. As I’m sure you’ll understand, Elizabeth can become very emotional when she speaks at these events, so she likes him to be with her on stage.’ She turned to him. ‘Sid, I’d like to welcome you back to Alderney.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Just two more things. You all know where the exit is in the event of a fire, and Elizabeth has asked me to remind you that there will be a signing afterwards at The Georgian House across the road. I’m very happy to tell you that books are being sold at a ten per cent discount. So without further ado, please welcome Elizabeth Lovell.’

Judith left the stage and the audience burst into sustained applause. At the same time, I looked around. George Elkin had not come, which was hardly surprising, and nor was there any sign of Maïssa Lamar. (Where had I read that poem? I was still wondering about it.) Marc Bellamy and Kathryn were probably in the kitchen of The Lookout, preparing for the evening, and Charles le Mesurier hadn’t shown up either. But Anne Cleary was there, sitting just a few places away from me. She lifted a hand and smiled.

‘Good afternoon.’ Elizabeth Lovell seemed to be focusing on a point in the middle of the audience, a few metres above our heads. Her head was tilted back so that the black discs of her glasses caught the lights being trained on her and flashed them back at us. She was sitting so rigidly, her shoulders could have been nailed to the back of the chair. Her hands were resting on her knees. She was dressed in the same colour palette as the day before and it occurred to me that if I could have looked at her from the side, she might have had an uncanny resemblance to the famous painting of Whistler’s mother.

‘Packed house,’ Sid muttered. He was wearing a blazer, white shirt and slacks. ‘Nice crowd . . . maybe a hundred people. No children. Raked seating. Standing at the back. More women than men.’