‘It was the Gales,’ she said. ‘Around the early 1850s, I think they were here. Late 1840s, it could have been.’

‘Ah, the Gales!’ he said. ‘Of course. They originally owned the Park, a much bigger house two or three miles away. At least, the parents did. Burnt down after the war. But I believe a son came here, after he’d fought in one of those wars somewhere; brought up a family in this house. His widow stayed on until her death in I think the early part of the century. The last century, I mean.’

‘That’s right,’ said Hazel.

‘We think it was Gale who put in some of the specimen trees: they’re about the right date. Our son-in-law is a bit of an expert on trees; his family have a rather well-known arboretum. My wife’s the one who’s keen on the actual garden plants.’

He waved an arm, to signal that the woman who had just joined them outside was Mrs Eyres.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Would you like to … do you need to … come in? Before we look round, I mean?’

Dawn understood that she was referring to the toilet. ‘No, we’re good, thank you,’ she said.

Ian Eyres winced. If only people wouldn’t say the word good in place of the word fine.

‘Was it the Indian Mutiny?’ he asked Hazel.

‘Excuse me?’

Was the woman slow-witted? ‘Was it the Indian Mutiny, that your chap Gale was involved in? Before he came back here?’

‘No, the Crimea. He won the Victoria Cross, as a matter of fact, for his actions there. At Alma. It was one of the very first ones.’

‘Goodness, how wonderful. I never knew that. Do you hear that, Penelope? Very glad to think we’re living under the roof of a war hero.’

Hazel smiled. They set off at a snail’s pace. Both Hazel and Dawn had been struck by how slowly British people walked, once they got into a garden, heads down, as if they were looking for a lost earring. Hidcote had been like Chapel Street on Christmas Eve, everyone shuffling. Penelope was the next to speak.

‘Heavens, I wonder if that’s where the snowdrops came from! I’ve always wondered about that.’

She turned to the visitors. ‘We have the most wonderful snowdrops here, in the early spring. Galanthus plicatus. All across that slope there. We open the garden for them actually, just two or three afternoons; for the Macmillan nurses. The Yellow Book? I expect you’ve heard of it. What a pity you’ve missed them.’

Hazel nodded politely, although she had no idea what Mrs Eyres was talking about.

‘Many of the best collections are said to have originated from soldiers bringing bulbs back from the Crimea. As I’m sure you know. Are you a galanthophile?’ she asked Hazel.

‘I might be, if I had any idea what that is,’ said Hazel, grinning.