‘Affairs?’

‘One-night stands, I suppose. He mentioned a few. And afterwards … the shame.’ Rosamund folded her hands in her lap. ‘Now, if we’re finished here …’

Hobbes shook his head. ‘Not quite.’

‘Really? Do you think you’re progressing?’

‘One more thing.’

‘Very well. If you must.’

‘About the dress we found buried in the cellar. I take it your brother mentioned that to you?’

‘He did.’

‘Well, then, I’m curious about that.’

Rosamund looked at him for a long time. Finally she spoke. ‘Yes. So am I.’

‘You’re saying you know nothing about it?’

‘That’s right.’ Stony-faced. ‘Father was always working down there. As children, we were never allowed down the stairs, not even supervised.’

Hobbes groaned. He wiped sweat from his face with a hand.

He took a hardback book from his bag and placed it on the coffee-table. Rosamund looked at it. Then she picked it up eagerly. ‘My Lord! I haven’t seen a copy of this for so long a time.’

‘Your mother wrote it.’

‘Yes, she had an idea she would become a novelist, that it would be a second career, when her acting days were over. But it was her only book, sadly. The critics didn’t take to it. And it never sold very well.’

‘I found it in Nicholas’s flat.’

‘I see.’

‘I also found this.’ Hobbes opened a sheet of paper. ‘It was in the wastepaper basket. He was attempting to write a letter. He tried several times.’

Rosamund’s expression was wide-eyed, a mixture of surprise and fear.

‘I’ll read it to you.’

She nodded. Hobbes read the words slowly: ‘“Dear Adeline. I hope I can call you that. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, these last few months, I don’t know why. Getting old, I suppose. I wish I could see you again. I really do! Who knows, a second time around, we might even …”’

He paused. ‘Here the letter breaks off. What do you make of it, Mrs Kepple?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And yet this is the third time we’ve seen this woman’s name mentioned. First in your father’s suicide note. Which said, Dearest Adeline, I’m so sorry. For everything. And then the same name was written on the wall of the cellar, where Adeline was asked to rest in peace. And now this.’ He brandished the piece of paper at her.

But Rosamund would not respond, only to widen her eyes still further.

Hobbes continued, ‘You see, when I saw that epigraph on the wall, I naturally assumed that Adeline, whoever she might be, was dead. But this letter, I don’t know, it seems to throw some doubt on that.’ He stared at her. ‘So. What do you think?’

With a great effort Rosamund said, ‘That isn’t a letter. It’s a journal entry, a musing, if you like. An attempt by Nicholas to make sense of his feelings for someone long lost.’

‘So Adeline is dead? Is that what you’re saying? Rosamund, talk to me.’

It took an effort: ‘She can’t be dead … because she was never alive.’