This later entry was undated. The word nothing had been underlined.

Rosamund’s face betrayed no emotion as she said, ‘There you have it. Father in all his glory.’

Hobbes waited a moment. ‘And how did that make you feel?’

Latimer added, ‘Angry, I imagine.’

Rosamund shrugged. ‘His fortune is paltry by now. And the house … well, it will fetch a price no doubt, but you’ve seen the state it’s in. And so …’

‘Yes?’

Rosamund’s face twisted up. ‘Let Camilla have the house, and let her rot in it.’

Hobbes wondered if that emotion ran deeper, beyond bitterness. ‘And how was Nicholas during this search?’

‘I would say … Yes, I would say he was sadder than I was, by a good few degrees.’

Hobbes shivered, he couldn’t help himself.

Latimer said, ‘We’re trying to get in touch with your sister.’

‘With Camilla?’

‘Have you any—’

‘I have nothing to tell you, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen her in years. Decades.’

‘And you have no address for her, or a telephone number?’

‘Nothing. To be honest …’

‘Yes?’

‘… I’m surprised she’s not still living in her father’s house.’

‘How about a photograph of her?’

‘I have no photographs of my family.’

‘None at all?’

‘Such things have never interested me.’

Latimer frowned. ‘How old would Camilla be now?’

Rosamund worked it out. ‘Oh, I don’t know. She was born in 1926, I remember that. What does that make her?’

Latimer gave the answer. ‘Fifty-five.’

‘Is she married?’ Hobbes asked.

‘I really couldn’t say.’ Now Rosamund sounded irritated.

‘Don’t you like these questions?’

She dismissed his remark with a wave of her hand. ‘I doubt Camilla would invite me to any ceremony, marriage or otherwise.’

The two officers looked at each other.

Hobbes dug in. ‘Rosamund, do you know of anyone who might want Nicholas dead, or wish him harm in any way?’

The question appeared to disturb her a little.

Hobbes and Latimer watched her closely. Was something of significance coming?

But no. She regained her sense of self, and said plainly, ‘I really know very little of my brother’s life. He left home in his twenties to fight in the war. Since then I’ve seen him only a few times, at family get-togethers and the like, but even those stopped after a while. That house was never inviting.’

‘Bad memories?’ Hobbes asked.

‘Oh, the usual things. Family life … and all that …’

‘The everyday cruelties?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Her brows knitted once more and, this time, she forgot to rectify the problem.

‘It was something your brother said to me, about your upbringing. Everyday cruelties.’

‘I see. Well, that is a strange thing to say.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do, yes. We were no different, I’m sure, from any other family of the time.’

Hobbes stared at her. He said, ‘Mrs Kepple, I think you’re lying.’

At last he had her attention. She held his look for a second or two. Distress flickered around her eyes, which then closed. It was the first proper emotion she’d shown, small as it was, and held tightly within her own body.