“There’s a lovely piece of chuck steak in this,” she said. “ I told him I didn’t want any of the rubbish he sent up last week.”

Elsie had cooked the meal. The cleaning lady would wash it up, but she did all the cooking. She sat with Albert at the table, set a plate on each of the cork place mats, and they began to eat. They were comfortable together. It was as if they were the married couple. They appreciated each other. She never knew, though, what he was thinking. Albert was a great one for secrets. She still did not know how he had first made the money to buy the Grand. Perhaps no one knew. So she waited for him to speak, to tell her how he had taken the news of his son’s death. She could not guess what his reaction would be.

“So Charlie’s gone before me,” he said with satisfaction. He was a big man, broad-bodied, wide-faced, soft and boneless as a cuddly toy. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly. He could have been talking about the food. “ I can’t say that I’m surprised.”

“But murder!” She was naively shocked and distressed. She had not known Charlie well. She suffered nothing by his death, yet she felt a real, unselfish, impersonal grief. Her sense of propriety was offended by Albert’s complacency, but because he had always believed that he was right about everything, she began to suspect that her distress was inappropriate. She wondered if her sadness were silly.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Albert repeated. “Some people bring bad luck on to themselves.”

They continued to eat rice pudding in silence. The wind blew a branch against the window. The lights flickered in threat of a power cut. The clock carried on ticking. Albert cleared his dish with relish and placed the spoon squarely in the middle of it. He looked slyly at Elsie. Perhaps it was to tease her, to shock her, that he said with such boyish excitement:

“I wonder who killed him.”

If it was an attempt to shock, he succeeded. She felt a spasm of revulsion. Charlie had been Albert’s son. They might not have been friendly, but this should be a day for regret, respect. Then the habit of acceptance returned. He’s an old man, she thought. He’s eighty-six. What can you expect?

Vaguely, to humour him, she said: “ It will have been one of those maniacs. You often read about them in the papers.”

“If Ernest had been killed, I could have understood it,” Albert continued, as if she had not spoken. “There’s a few that would like to see Ernest out of the way.”

“Now Dad,” she said. “That’s no way to talk.”

“It’s true though.” He was certainly teasing her, was laughing at her discomfort and embarrassment. The fleshy stomach seemed to ripple with suppressed mirth. “There was young Nick, Mary Mardle’s boy. He threatened Ernest with all sorts when Mary had to leave the cottage. He saw Laurence about it, didn’t he? And he came here to see me. He was in a proper temper when he was here.” The laughter could no longer be contained, seemed to splutter from the round cheeks like a mouthful of food. “ More like Old Nick he was then. Like Old Nick himself.”