The manager of the home was talking to a nurse, and pointing to the two detectives. Then they were called forward. The nurse spoke to Mrs Graves in a soothing voice: ‘These two people are police officers. They want to talk with you, Mary Estelle. Would you like that?’ In response the old lady stared first at Latimer, then at Hobbes. She kept her gaze on him for a long time. He felt he was being analysed by those steely grey eyes that never blinked. But she didn’t answer the nurse’s question. Hobbes didn’t know if he should move forward or not. And then Mary Estelle made the slightest of nods, a signal. Hobbes and Latimer sat down, facing her across a small card table.

‘Am I in trouble?

Her voice was cultivated, old-fashioned. Received pronunciation, they used to call it. Queen’s English. Her demeanour went well with the voice, born of the desire to present herself to the world in the best possible light. But her features were her own, given in the blood: aquiline nose, thin, almost straight lips, her eyes still sharp with life and hope.

‘No, Mrs Graves, you’re not in trouble.’

‘I sincerely hope not.’ She added a little chuckle to the end of the line, a perfect expression. She must have had many such tricks in her repertoire, learned over the years of stage work.

‘Not at all, Mrs Graves. We only—’

‘Please, you must call me Mary Estelle. Everybody does.’

‘Mary—’

‘Mary Estelle. If you would. The full name.’

‘Very well.’

‘I suppose you want to know about my husband, Leonard, and why he killed himself.’

Hobbes hesitated. Her statement surprised him. He didn’t know how much she knew of the events of the last few weeks. Looking at her, he was struck by her compassion, and her obvious intelligence. He couldn’t help wondering about Rosamund Kepple’s description of her mother as a crazed individual incapable of making proper sense. The truth was very different, or at least it appeared so on the surface.

Latimer took over. ‘Do you know why he killed himself?’

‘Shame, I imagine. It finally gathered up inside him. Poor Leonard, he was always a one for carrying burdens.’

‘Why would he feel shame?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why would your husband feel ashamed? Do you think he did something wrong?’

The question was met with a look of distaste. ‘I never said that.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I would never say such a thing.’

‘I only meant to—’

‘Do not take such a tone with me, miss. I dislike it.’

Latimer felt it best to look down at her notepad, and say nothing.

Hobbes spoke carefully. ‘Mary Estelle, do you know about your son, Nicholas?’

‘My son?’

‘Yes. On Sunday night, I’m afraid he was—’

‘I don’t have a son.’

Her face had taken on a very different aspect now, one of complete certainty in the stated fact. And she said again, ‘I don’t have a son. I have two daughters. Or is it three?’