‘The Pennine Hills – they’re between Westmorland and the North Riding.’ The man chuckled in a self-satisfied manner.

‘Oh, I see, yes – jolly good.’ Pearson was bending down to study the painting in closer detail, trying to remember that Anthony Hawke was not meant to be jovial. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I caught your name?’

‘I do apologise, I ought to have introduced myself: Charles Bourne – as in Bourne and Sons.’

‘One of the sons?’

‘Grandson, actually.’

Pearson nodded and stepped back from the painting, frowning as he looked at it. He caught a movement at the window and was sure it was one of Gilbey’s men peering in, which was really not good enough. ‘I think I would consider anything above two hundred guineas to be too steep.’

‘Perhaps if we were to suggest two hundred and twenty, sir?’

He was concerned that in the absence of Ridgeway this would turn out to be a futile visit, but he could hardly leave now. ‘Would two hundred and fifteen be agreeable to you?’

Bourne said it was, and enthusiastically rubbed his hands as he removed the painting from the wall and carried it over to a large table. He said he’d wrap it and prepare the provenance and the invoice.

Bourne looked around and lowered his voice, ‘Donald said you spoke most movingly of your love for England when you were here before.’

Anthony Hawke grunted as he removed his Coutts chequebook from his pocket. ‘I make the cheque out to Bourne and Sons, I presume?’

Bourne said indeed, and added that he very much shared the sentiments he understood Mr Hawke had so admirably articulated to his colleague.

‘There we are, Bourne.’ Hawke passed the cheque across the table. ‘One of course has one’s views on where this country is going and how the war turned out, and I do rather despair, but I very much doubt there’s very much one can do about it.’

Bourne paused and wondered whether Mr Hawke would join him in his office so they could finalise the paperwork? Hawke said of course, and Bourne apologised as he led him to the back of the gallery, explaining that the office was not as tidy as perhaps it should be but he blamed his grandfather for that.

It was only when he sat down in an ancient chair that he was unsure would hold his weight that Sir Roland noticed a woman sitting in the corner of the room, her slim legs crossed and her hands resting on her lap. Bourne said she was a colleague and someone who could absolutely be trusted – ‘Perhaps even more than me!’ Pearson was intrigued by her: she was perhaps in her mid-fifties, a remarkably elegant woman with a face he’d describe as pretty. In her day she must have been quite beautiful. She nodded her head in his direction but otherwise remained impassive as Bourne completed the paperwork and placed the cheque in a small safe.