‘Anything else?’

‘We never stayed long. One time I remember a grand dinner. Six courses. Over dessert, a terrible argument broke out. I haven’t a clue what they were talking about. I was six or seven at the time, sitting on my own at a little side table.’

‘What about Adeline?’

Kepple’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Who’s that? I’m sorry?’

‘You never heard anyone in your family talking about her, about Adeline?’

‘I’ve never heard the name until now. Who is she?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Kepple led the way to another exhibit, a pile of paperclips, each one a yard long, each painted a different colour of the rainbow. The piece was called Charles Darwin Argues With President Kennedy. The gallery owner continued, ‘Later on my mother stopped visiting, and she banned me from going on my own. Something must’ve happened between them all, something nasty. But when I reached the age of eighteen, I decided to pay a visit. I was curious, as only a person of that age can be.’

‘What year would that be? Early sixties?’

‘Sixty-two.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘Camilla was still living there, pushing thirty. Granddad and Grandma had quite separate lives, I think. Their own bedrooms. Not a lot of talking. But I got on best with Mary Estelle. She was a hoot. She made me laugh with her tales of theatreland, you know, the dreadful things that actors and actresses got up to in private, and in public.’

‘You didn’t see …’ Hobbes didn’t quite know how to put the question. ‘You didn’t see any children in the house, or teenagers. Girls?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘She might have been wearing a blue dress with yellow flowers on it. Like this.’ He pulled out a photograph.

Now Kepple looked confused. ‘I really don’t …’

‘Think carefully.’

‘This is ridiculous. Why are you asking me these things?’

‘It might be important. Did you ever see this dress laid out on the floor?’

‘No, nothing like … Oh, would that be …’ Understanding flickered in Kepple’s eyes. ‘Is this to do with Adeline, whoever she might be? Is there something I need to know about, some secret?’

‘We’re exploring various avenues.’

‘Did Adeline kill Nicholas?’

Hobbes didn’t reply.

The two men stared at each other.

Kepple said, ‘You’ve set yourself a pointless task, you do know that?’

‘You think so?’

‘Postmodernism works against the sureties of narrative, of linear progression – ultimate goals, beginnings, middles and ends. I truly believe that a coming age will despise such notions. There is no one truth, only a mist of possibilities. We are lost among the various meanings, and we should celebrate that.’

The detective spoke clearly: ‘I will discover the person who killed your uncle. That will be truth enough for me.’

‘Beware of false endings, then. Come, let me show you another piece.’

Kepple led the way into a second room, smaller in size and containing only one exhibit: a large glass-walled container, perhaps six feet long by four in height and width. The tank was entirely open at the top. It was filled to about the halfway mark with branches cut from trees, and twigs, and dead or dying leaves, a whole mass of them.