A thought came to Hobbes. ‘Mr Kepple, did you visit your uncle last week, at his flat?’

‘I did, as it happens.’

‘What day was this?’

‘It was … last Thursday, I think.’

‘Yes, good. You were heard knocking on the door, by the neighbour.’

‘Well, yes … but Nick wasn’t in.’

‘Why did you want to see him?’

‘To find out how he was doing, if he needed any help. I was concerned about him.’

Hobbes nodded. ‘Did Nicholas have any enemies?’

‘In the old days, maybe. The skin game could be a little cut-throat, back in the sixties. But nowadays, I very much doubt it.’

‘And within his own family?’

‘That’s different. All of them, at various times, could have killed each other without regret. But at others they would close up tight and, under the guise of love, protect each other.’

‘You saw this at first hand?’

‘Now and then. My mother and I visited the family home perhaps five or six times in my childhood.’

‘Your father died when you were young, is that right?’

Kepple moved on to study an image of a bird of paradise. The materials were listed as felt-tip pens, sequins, glue. He looked to be studying every little mark, every imperfection.

‘My mother left home when she was twenty-five to marry Andrew Kepple. I was born a year after. Despite our family’s history, I like to think I’ve turned out fine.’ Again, the smile. He kept it in place, even as he said, ‘My father was killed in action at the Battle of Hamburg, one of the last offensives of the war.’ A slight pause. ‘I was a year old.’

‘It must have been tough.’

‘For my mother, yes.’

‘Why did she wait so long to leave home?’

‘I think it was difficult to escape. Bridlemere has thick walls, and sturdy doors. And many locks. Even Nicholas, the male child, had to wait for the war to start before he could get away, by joining up to fight. As for Camilla …’

‘What about her?’

‘She was nearly forty when she left.’

‘And do you know where she’s living, right now?’

‘I wish I could help you, I really do. But she’s become a mystery. Dearest Camilla. I rather liked her on the few occasions we met. She had a bit more … gumption than Nicholas or, indeed, my mother.’

A young couple opened the door of the gallery, took a glance around, and exited again. They looked embarrassed.

Kepple smiled. ‘We get that a lot.’

Hobbes said, ‘What do you remember of the times you visited the house?’

‘As a child? Just dimly lit rooms, endless corridors, sealed doors. And the smell, of course. That fascinated me. Camphor, lavender, mildew. Always the aroma of tobacco, which seemed to follow me around like some half-visible wraith. My grandfather smoked a pipe in his middle years. He used to scare me with his tales of the ghosts of Bridlemere. He talked of a hidden room, with no doors, no windows, and how a voice could be heard speaking from behind the walls. That gave me nightmares, as a child. Of course, I loved the thrill of it, really.’