‘I stand corrected, Ellen. And you also rule out – or perhaps consider unlikely – the notion of suicide …’

‘I do.’

‘As do I. So, what are we left with?’

I could now see where he was heading and cut to the chase. ‘The possibility that someone else lit the fire …’

‘Ah. Yes.’

‘Which could perhaps make Ingrid Richards’ death a case of murder.’

‘So it could, Ellen. And, if we were to pursue this rather fanciful – but appealing – conjecture, I think our reading of crime fiction would provide the question we should ask next.’

‘Who done it?’

‘Yes. Exactly. And are you, Ellen, at this moment in a position to name any suspects?’

‘No,’ I said firmly. I had my own views, but this was not a game for more than one player in which I wished to participate.

‘Probably very wise.’ Niall Connor noticed that his glass needed topping up again. This time he didn’t even make the gesture of offering me more.

‘Have you noticed,’ he said, as if he were broaching a new subject, ‘how cheerful Alex has seemed since the news of Ingrid’s death?’

I couldn’t deny that I had.

‘Now, Ellen, I make no claims to have been a good father to the girl. Complete absence from a child’s life is not the route recommended in most parenting books. But I think, from the girl’s point of view, Ingrid’s track record is at least as bad.’

I had views on this but kept them to myself.

‘In the crime novels we were talking about just then,’ he observed, ‘the first suspect is always the last person to see the victim alive.’

Having planted the suspicion, he left it at that. The conversation opened out. Grace contributed more to it. She talked about her weekend plans for the garden, which was as perfectly maintained as everything else in her life. (Including her marriage? I asked myself again.)

I couldn’t go far up that conversational avenue with her. Not gardening. The garden at the house in Chichester is unadorned and functional. Everything was cut back in the days when the children still played in it, and since then I haven’t had time to play with it. I was never much interested in gardens, anyway. I get my energy from people, not plants.

The dessert course was predictably excellent too. Fresh soft fruit with home-made sorbets, an expertly chosen cheeseboard, impeccable coffee. They may have been pushing the boat out in my honour, but I got the feeling Grace Bellamy’s perfectionism meant they always lived like that.

I found it all very pleasant but not relaxing. I was glad when the appropriate time came for me to say my goodbyes.

Niall Connor saw me out to the front door. His stood in the columned porch, his eyes screwed up against the afternoon sun.

‘What do you think of my daughter?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Alexandra? She seems pleasant enough. I don’t know her well.’