‘She was crying. Crying at the graveside, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. That gave me my first clue. So I sauntered over. First of all I asked for her name. Or rather, I offered her name to her. Like … Camilla Graves? And she turned to me and looked surprised. And then I said, “I’m with the police.” You notice, I hope, sir, I didn’t say I was police. I said I was working with the police. Without my card on me. You see, I know the rules.’

Hobbes nodded. He didn’t say anything.

‘It had started to rain by then. And it all got a bit nasty. Nasty word-wise, I mean. She called me something I don’t like to hear a woman say, or a man. Unless it’s Latimer, of course—’

‘Fairfax.’

‘There was a bit of a struggle.’

‘Christ, I asked you—’

‘No, more like I just slipped. It was muddy! All churned up. I was in a right old state.’

‘And?’

‘Sure, right. The story. The details, as requested. So then I tried to calm her down. I said, “Actually, I’m not with the police, not as such. I lied, just a little. They kicked me out, leave of absence, and I’m still wondering whether I should go back or not, or whether my boss would even have me back.”’

‘You said all this?’

‘That I did. Words to that effect. Anyways, I think that calmed her down a bit, like she wasn’t expecting me to arrest her or anything stupid like that. So then I went for my killer line.’

‘Which was?’

Fairfax’s eyes sparkled. ‘I said, “Are you the lipstick or the brooch?”’

‘What?’

‘The five objects, in the jewellery box, right? You gave me the photographs.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Haven’t you worked it out yet? They each represent a different member of the family. The medal is the father’s, Leonard, obviously. The cigarette card of Greta Garbo, that’s Mary Estelle, the great actress. The threepenny bit … that threw me a little, until I noticed the date on the coin: 1919. The year Nicholas Graves was born.’

‘Did Latimer tell you that?’

‘Nah, it was in the Sun. Nicholas Graves, aged sixty-two.’

Hobbes had to smile. He said, ‘So that left the brooch and the lipstick?’

‘Correct.’

By now Fairfax was in his element. He was leaning forward, puffing at his cigarette between phrases, the other hand moving constantly to express his excitement.

‘Each member of the family placed an object in the cellar grave, with the dress. An object that meant something to them, that represented them. It’s so fuckin’ pure. Oh—’

And he stopped.

‘What’s wrong now?’

‘I hope Meg won’t get in trouble? She gave me some information, when I asked.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘Good. Good. Because I wouldn’t—’

‘You were saying, Tommy: lipstick or brooch?’

Fairfax nodded. ‘Camilla didn’t answer me at first. We’d walked on a bit by then, and she was looking down at another grave. So I made a guess. I said, “I’m reckoning the lipstick belongs to Rosamund, the elder daughter. But the brooch, I don’t know, it’s old-looking, an antique.” And she spoke then. She said, “Yes, it belonged to my grandmother, Philippa. She gave it to me a few days before she died.”’ Fairfax smiled, and he said to Hobbes, ‘That was the name on the grave, you see, where she had led me. Philippa Layne. The grandma. Died in 1934, according to the stone.’