‘Not really,’ he answered, smiling. ‘The receptionist at The Dartmoor Lodge was very helpful with directions. And there’s always the satnav if we get desperate.’

‘Are you planning on staying here long?’

‘Just for a couple more days. You know, you really took us by surprise this afternoon. We knew that the old man had left something to his cleaning lady but, frankly, I was expecting some old girl in an apron and slippers.’

‘Curlers under her headscarf?’ I suggested.

‘Something like that,’ he admitted.

‘So, what do you do, Richard,’ I asked, ‘for a living, I mean?’

‘I’m in the motor trade,’ he volunteered cheerfully, ‘in London. We’re a private company. Basically, a customer contacts us, telling us what he wants and we find it for him. Strictly the class end of the market, of course.’

‘Of course.’

He failed to detect the note of irony in my voice and rattled on. ‘We’ll go anywhere to find the customer the car he wants. I’ve just driven a Lamborghini back from Milan for one of our Arab customers.’

‘You just deal with new cars?’

‘No, no. Vintage models sometimes.’

I had to hide a smile. A second-hand car salesman; it suited him down to the ground.

Gidleigh Park Hotel was up an extremely long and winding lane, which, once it had convinced you that you must have taken a wrong turn miles back, suddenly opened out to reveal a sprawling mock-Tudor pile set in its own grounds.

We had a drink in the bar whilst we debated whether to go à la carte or opt for the seven-course tasting menu. We decided on the à la carte and followed the waiter to a panelled dining room and our candlelit table. After Richard consulted with the sommelier over the extensive wine list, we sat in silence, studying our menus.

I debated over the langoustine ceviche to start, or the coffee-cured sea trout.

I decided on the langoustine, followed by lamb. Richard went for Cornish venison tartare and then Brixham turbot.

‘You know, I haven’t really thanked you for sticking up for me this afternoon,’ I said when the waiter had taken our orders.

‘You mustn’t think badly of Helena,’ he responded cheerfully. ‘She’s not such a bad old stick. She had a pretty ghastly time of it when we were younger.’

‘You didn’t seem surprised about the will.’

‘Not really. There was never any love lost between us.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘We’re an unnatural lot, I daresay.’

The waiter brought our wine and Richard was distracted by the ritual of tasting and approving it. Glasses filled, we clinked and drank.

‘To Nick,’ I said.

He stared at me a moment, but if he found my toast inappropriate he didn’t say so. ‘To you,’ he said. ‘You are very lovely by candlelight.’

I started to laugh.