She sniffed indignantly. “The rotten man probably deserved it. We drove over there once, soon after he had moved in. Dooley was writing a book on Irish peat bogs at the time and we knew there were some old family photos of peat cutting, up on the Bog of Allen. But do you know, that insufferable person wouldn’t let us in, let alone have access to our own family photographs. Not let me into Kilhenny Castle where I was born and raised! He said he’d paid good money for the castle and its contents and we should get lost before his manservant came after us with a shotgun.” She had been talking all the way down the passage, her voice booming up the stairwell to our right. Then she spun to face us, her face a picture of indignation. “Can you imagine the nerve? No wonder your father killed him. I’d have done so myself if I’d had a weapon handy at that moment.”

Darcy shot me a glance. I didn’t know whether to grin or be shocked. Aunt Oona opened a door and we stepped into a sitting room. At least it would have been a sitting room if there had been anywhere to sit. The sofa was buried under piles of books. A cat was asleep in one of the armchairs. The other had a large canvas lying over it, and the smell of fresh paint permeated the room. There was a bucket of potatoes, a fancy-looking hat and a pair of kid gloves on the low table.

“Move some of that stuff and sit down,” she said. “But mind the wet paint. I’ve been working on that one. My latest opus and I have to say I’m rather proud of it.”

Darcy picked up the painting by its edges. To me it was horribly bright daubs, but Oona went on, “Recognize him, Darcy? Oh, come on. The likeness is quite visible. It’s Dooley, standing on his head when he does his yoga exercises. I had to rush to finish it. He complained about posing too long in that position.”

Darcy winked at me as he leaned the picture against a wall. I have to say that wink felt wonderful. We were a unit, connected, inseparable, whatever happened.

“And mind Mr. Gladstone,” Oona boomed at us. “He scratches. Horrible creature. He’s even more bad tempered than your stupid father, Darcy.”

I sat where the painting had been, and almost coughed as dust rose from the cushions. Darcy tried to remove the cat from the other chair but it hissed and lashed out, making him opt for perching on the arm of my chair instead.