Hobbes gave her a moment to recover. He looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished, with only a few choice personal belongings scattered about: a hairbrush, a stand with beaded necklaces draped over it, the blue bottles of perfumes. There was the faint air of a penitent’s cell, a feeling enhanced by the statuette of the Mother of Our Lord hanging on the wall, the sole decoration.

‘Tell me, Mary Estelle, did you love your husband?’

Her eyes opened. ‘I thought you were a detective?’

‘I am.’

‘Not an agony aunt.’

Hobbes couldn’t help smiling. ‘Are you avoiding the question?’

‘Probably. Well … let me see. Did we love each other?’ She reflected, and then quoted: ‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark.’

‘Shakespeare again. Let me think. Sonnet … 112?’

‘116.’

Hobbes nodded. ‘Of course. The marriage of true minds.’

‘I would say that we loved each other more than adequately. In our own way.’ Here she seemed to change the subject. ‘My family name is Layne. Perhaps you’ve heard of us.’

‘I can’t say I have.’

‘Really? We were mentioned in the Domesday Book, you know. The goodlie Laynes of Shropshire. Yes, we became quite prominent in society.’ She said this last word with an air of disgust. ‘We made the bulk of our fortune importing tea from China. Poor dear penniless Leonard married into my family’s money, and was happy to do so. In turn, I gained a manager, and a stage director, and most of all the creator of my finest roles. He really did understand me, in terms of my art. We made each other famous.’ Passion entered her voice. ‘We created each other.’

‘You’re saying, what, that the marriage was a business arrangement?’

‘Partly, yes. But we did love each other, and it grew over time, this love.’

‘But you didn’t go to his funeral?’

‘Dr Cleveland said I was too poorly. Can you imagine that? That it might be too much for me.’ She tutted.

Hobbes watched her as she spoke. She was a great actress: how much of her demeanour was true, how much a well-practised role? ‘It’s been a difficult week for you. With the loss of your husband. And now Nicholas …’

‘Do you find it musty in here?’

‘I … Yes, a little. I can open a window?’

‘No, please. I chill easily.’

She reached over for one of her perfume bottles and gave the room a generous spray. Hobbes almost gagged before he asked his next question. ‘So you knew that Nicholas was dead?’

‘Yes. David came to see me yesterday. He told me.’

‘This is David Kepple? Your grandson.’

‘He’s the only one who ever visits. Mind you, I’m thankful for that. I cannot abide Rosamund, and as for Camilla … Well, she lives by her own rules, and I can’t blame her for that …’ Her voice trailed off, the thoughts lost.