‘Are there any family members who might want something?’

‘No.’ She says it quickly, no need to think about it. ‘Walter had a son from his first marriage, but his ex-wife poisoned the water there and I’d have no idea how to contact him. Walter and I just had each other, but that was enough. We made sure of that. You just keep having your adventures.’

‘Pompeii . . .’

‘Precisely.’ She nods. ‘But come take a look. I want an objective opinion on what to do with it.’

She leads me over to the wrapping table, past my pile of cardboard, to the open box at the far end. She lifts out a pocket watch and hands it to me.

‘Gold, apparently,’ she says. ‘Not that it tells the time anymore. I’m not even sure it has an hour hand. It was Walter’s grandfather’s, but . . . a broken watch. I think it’s a sell.’

It’s heavy, solid. There’s a cloudiness to the glass, perhaps from abrasion. The face has one large dial and two small, each with its own black needle-like hand. I can just make out the words ‘Emery’ and ‘London’.

‘I went to research it, but all the watches online were such fine specimens that I had to stop. There’s no market for it as a watch. Not that I can see. The gold though . . .’ She reaches into the box again. ‘And then there’s this.’

The watch makes a clunk as I set it down on the desk. The rim is scored with fine scratches that are picked up by the light. Ellen places a human figure beside it, a toy soldier that would fit across my hand. He’s standing, wearing a cocked hat, and a greatcoat with a sword hilt protruding from it. His legs are smooth and black to the knees but pale and creased above them, suggesting he’s wearing boots. In his right hand he holds a short cylinder – a broken weapon or perhaps a bottle.

‘Also Walter’s grandfather’s,’ Ellen tells me. ‘Almost certainly lead, as toy soldiers were. But it’s not in a set, there’s no box, it’s lost a lot of paint. All of that, I suspect, stops it having commercial value.’ She turns it around so that it’s facing us squarely. ‘Who do you think it is?’

The face has flecks of paint on it, but the eyes have been rubbed blank. There’s a spot of red left on the black hat – a badge or ribbon, perhaps.

‘George Washington?’ It’s not George Washington.

‘Napoleon. Apparently.’ She picks it up, adjusts her glasses and inspects it more closely. ‘That’s the family story at least. As you’d imagine, it wasn’t Walter’s way to let such a tale pass without interrogation, but his grandfather died when he was four or five, so it’s possible he hadn’t developed that habit then.’

‘But no hand in the waistcoat.’ I slide my hand flat across my chest. ‘If we’re talking about habits. Or is that a cliché?’