From Burlington Gardens he turned into Cork Street. He made sure he took his time, strolling along without any apparent care in the world and visiting at least three other galleries before finally coming to Bourne and Sons. Only two days previously, one of Gilbey’s men – something of a know-all on art by all accounts – had visited the gallery and written a most helpful brief for him.

A bell rang uncertainly at the back of the small gallery as he entered. It was darker inside than he’d have expected, though there were lights above some of the paintings. His shoes echoed loudly on the wooden floor and the room had a musty smell. For a moment or two he was alone, though he did hear some movement at the back. He soon spotted what he was looking for and made sure he was studying it when a figure appeared at his side.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’ What Sir Roland noticed wasn’t so much the accent, more the tone of voice, the keen-to-oblige, very slightly servile tone, one that wanted to assure the listener that the speaker was of a certain class.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I was wondering if I could help you, sir?’

Sir Roland Pearson was now Anthony Hawke – Hawke being his maternal grandmother’s maiden name. He’d decided that Hawke should be not nearly as clubbable as Pearson, so he muttered something unintelligible and continued to stare at the painting as he removed his spectacles and put them on again. Then, without looking at the other man, he pointed at it and nodded approvingly.

‘A Richard Wilson, I see.’

‘Indeed, sir: the father of English landscape painting.’

Hawke shot him a questioning look. ‘Wilson was Welsh.’

‘Indeed, sir, but very much the father of the early English school of landscape artists.’

‘If one disregards Gainsborough,’ said Hawke. He laughed and the other man gratefully joined in, then asked his visitor’s name.

‘Anthony Hawke: Hawke with an “e”.’

‘You certainly are most knowledgeable, Mr Hawke. One does so appreciate meeting a connoisseur.’

‘And may I ask your name?’

‘It’s Ridgeway, Donald Ridgeway. Are you by any chance interested in the Wilson?’ Ridgeway was fidgeting with his cuffs and clasping and unclasping his hands in a hopeful manner.

Hawke didn’t reply, but moved deeper into the gallery, where he spotted the painting Gilbey’s man had briefed him about.

‘I say, is this a Joseph Wright of Derby, by any chance?’

‘It is indeed, sir, very well spotted if I may say so. The signature is hard to decipher, but we do have full provenance, I can assure you.’

‘I do so admire Wright’s bold use of light and dark: his landscapes are quite exquisite. This is a fine example – the hills almost seem to move. May I ask…?’

‘The price, sir? Yes, of course: it is two hundred and thirty guineas, but I’m sure…’

His voice tailed off as Hawke nodded in a manner to suggest disappointment. ‘My brother-in-law paid a hundred guineas for a Wright of Derby landscape before the war.’