She broke off from stirring eggs to turn the bread toasting under the grill.

Rowland made no comment.

“That child haunts me,” she continued, her face troubled. “I could see he haunted Letitia as well. What do you think became of him? Did he die, get put in some home? I think perhaps he did die. Perhaps he was handicapped in some way.”

“The child of a brother and sister? I know.”

“Think, Rowland, if he’d lived, he’d be in his twenties now. Grown up. Older than Tom. And they could never acknowledge him, never even see him. I think that would be so desperately hard… What is it, Rowland?”

“Nothing.” He had turned to look at her, suddenly intent; then he shook his head. “All of this is speculation anyway. It’s not even easy to check it out. There’s no surname. It’s too vague.”

“If you did have a surname”—Lindsay was now spooning eggs onto toast—“would you be able to run checks then?”

“Oh, you could run some even without a name. You could start with the Grants, with that convent and its school. With a name, you’d certainly get a lot farther. You could then trace the births of Marie-Thérèse and her brother. You should be able to trace the birth of her child—and discover whether or not he died. It’s conceivable you could trace them to France, through immigration records. That might provide an early address. That might give you a lead on how or where Lazare first made his money, even when they changed their names. But it would take a long time, it might lead nowhere, and besides, I told you, Lindsay. This is background and it has to stay background.”

Lindsay said nothing. It had occurred to her that there might be a quick way of discovering that surname, and an ingenious way too, but she did not intend to mention it to Rowland, in case she was wrong.

They sat down to eat their meal. It was a kind of picnic, Lindsay thought. They had toast and scrambled eggs, then toast and pâté. Then Rowland, who was still hungry—it seemed unfair that a man could imbibe so many calories and remain whiplash lean—ate cornflakes for dessert. He made coffee—and at some point during this odd meal, which began companionably enough, Lindsay could sense that just as he had done earlier, he was retreating into some private world of his own.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, catching her eye. “I’m getting locked back into this Lazare story. That happens to me. I’m not good at switching off. And there’s one detail that’s bothering me.”

“About the story I told you?”

“Indirectly, perhaps. It’s more than that though.”

“You can’t tell me why you’re interested in Lazare?”

“Lindsay, no. I’m sorry. When it’s over, I’ll explain.”

“But Gini knows? She’s going to work on it with you?”

“That’s certainly the plan.”

“So it does relate to what happened at Max’s? And it does relate in some way to Amsterdam?”