Rosamund’s entire face was taken up by a passion of her own now, every careful rule of behaviour cast aside. Her features were creased and coloured as the anger seethed through her. Her hand moved before her, clutching an imagined weapon.

‘The knife of hatred was pointed at the world. But now it turned towards her …’

Hobbes was fascinated. ‘You mean … you’re saying your mother injured herself?’

‘Perhaps. Yes, why not? I imagine she was capable of such an act.’ But then Rosamund shook her head, to erase the feelings from her body. Control took over again, even colder than before. ‘Well, it is one explanation. The one I prefer, when I think back on my younger days.’

Latimer took up the idea. ‘So every year this self-mutilation was replicated, on the dress, as a way of, what, preventing it from happening again, for real?’

‘Yes. Why not?’ Rosamund Kepple’s voice was icy. It might have been an automaton speaking. ‘I’m sure Nicholas told you a little of the theatrical nature of life at Bridlemere.’

Hobbes said, ‘He did.’

‘Every day was filled with miniature dramas concocted by our parents. And later on, by a natural process, we children took on our own creative roles.’

‘It must’ve been hell.’

‘Actually, it was quite fun.’

Hobbes changed tack. ‘Your brother claimed to have no knowledge of the dresses.’

‘Well, that’s Nick for you. Always wanting to hide the truth of Mother’s madness. He was the apple of her diseased eye, and she loved him dearly. Her little boy-child.’

Latimer said, ‘We’d like to speak with your mother. Would that be possible?’

‘You can try. I’ll give you the address of the old people’s home.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s called Riverdale House, in Greenwich. The best David could find.’

‘Your son?’

‘That’s right. He found his grandmother a place there, and he pays all the bills. Really, he’s turned out a good boy.’

‘We’ll go to see her, I think.’

‘Of course. But I must warn you, my mother isn’t very responsive these days. She makes little or no sense.’

‘You don’t get on?’

A simple shake of the head was her only answer.

Hobbes considered for a moment. ‘We know very little about Nicholas. What was he like, as a person?’

‘Artistic, sensitive. He was always working on some scheme or other, but none of them came to much. He wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps.’

‘Into the theatre?’

‘Yes, or the arts in general. He had an interest in films. But the old man cast a heavy shadow. Nick could never quite escape his father’s influence, although God knows he tried.’ She took a breath. ‘I always thought he needed a woman in his life. But he wasn’t the marrying kind, if you take my meaning.’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Of course, he might have married, just to spite himself. Or to hide his true nature. But no. I genuinely think he preferred loneliness. Or, of course …’