And the certainty left her eyes. She was perplexed.

A moment passed.

Hobbes watched her closely, as her face struggled to express itself once more. A famed actress, searching for a mask.

And then she turned to the nurse and asked, ‘Deborah, dear? How many children do I have?’

‘Three, Mary Estelle.’

‘Yes, I thought so, I was correct.’

‘Three children, all grown-up now. Their names are …’

‘Yes?’

‘Can you remember?’

‘Rosamund?’

‘That’s right. And?’

The nurse was treating her like a child, but the approach seemed to be working.

‘Rosamund, Camilla and … Nicholas!’

The names were exclaimed with delight – delight at having reached into her memory so well, and so deeply. Her eyes refocused and she looked at Hobbes, then at Latimer. ‘Are you my daughter? Which one are you?’

‘Mrs Graves, I’m a—’

‘Which one are you? Rosamund or Camilla? Which one?’

Hobbes looked at his fellow officer. He could see that Latimer was feeling at a loss. He felt the same. The interview was proving difficult. He looked at the nurse for help, receiving only a raised hand in response.

Go easy. Go slow.

He really didn’t feel like doing that.

Mary Estelle laughed. She said in her politest tone, ‘I am so sorry. I mustn’t raise my voice, I know it disturbs people.’ She smiled. ‘Did you enjoy my performance?’

Hobbes nodded. Latimer said, ‘I did. Was it a role you used to play?’

‘Several of them, actually, all jumbled together. I can never remember the lines, not in the correct order anyway. Everything gets terribly mixed up.’

Hobbes said, ‘Mary Estelle. I have to bring you bad news.’

She looked at him.

‘Two nights ago, on Sunday evening, your son, Nicholas, was found dead.’

‘Oh.’

It was a quiet cry. Hardly that. More an exclamation of surprise.

‘Nicholas? Little Nicholas?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘How he used to play on his hobby horse, wooden sword in hand, like brave St George. He loved to fight the dragon!’

And now she was lost. Mary Estelle had drifted away into the distant past. She was rocking back and forth gently in her chair, holding an invisible form in her hands, perhaps a child, perhaps a precious object, someone or something she had once loved.

The nurse bent to her. ‘Are you tired? Would you like to lie down for a while?’

‘No. No, thank you.’ She spoke in a whisper. ‘I have things to do.’

And she continued the rocking motion, the stroking of a child’s hair.

Hobbes felt certain she was doing just that.

Nicholas.

In her hands, still.

Even now.

Latimer leaned forward in her seat and said gently, ‘Mary Estelle, we’d like to show you something, if that’s all right?’

‘Of course. I only want to help.’

Latimer drew an object from her bag. It was an item of clothing, carefully folded. Mary Estelle received it tenderly. She held it at two places, her fingers lightly clasping the left and right shoulders, and she flipped it outwards so that the dress unfolded like a wing and then settled, hovering for a moment, until the hem dipped and fell slowly to the floor.