‘Actually, she asked me to choose ten for myself. Any ten. Can you imagine?’

‘And you did?’

‘Of course. And one of them turned out to be a Max Ernst, an original. I don’t know if either Leonard or Mary Estelle knew what they truly possessed. Anyway, I sold the painting at auction, and that set me on my future career. I owe it all to Mary Estelle.’

‘Did you visit much after that?’

‘Only now and then. The house remained as it ever was, a fortress. When Camilla left home, my grandparents more or less bolted the doors against all intruders.’

‘But you helped your grandmother later, by finding the old people’s home, paying her bills?’

‘It was the least I could do. Although, in truth, I thought it was Leonard who should have been put in a home. Mary Estelle deserved that house.’

Hobbes considered. ‘I would like to talk freely, Mr Kepple.’

‘Of course.’ He looked nervous.

‘First, can you prove where you were on Sunday evening?’

Kepple didn’t flinch. ‘My wife will confirm I was at home.’

‘I’ll need a little more than that.’

‘I don’t have—’

The detective held up a hand. He said something extraordinary. ‘It seems the night flesh hasn’t yet touched you.’

Kepple’s eyes opened wide. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You don’t seem crazy.’

‘Right. Erm …’

‘Your grandmother told me that the night flesh is a kind of madness that affects members of the Graves family. She hinted that it might be genetic.’

‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

‘Your mother, Rosamund, used the phrase as well, a couple of days ago. When she cut herself. She’s never mentioned it to you?’

‘No. No, I …’

‘What is it?’

‘No one told me, but I’m sure I … Yes, I must’ve read it somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t help you. I wish I could.’

‘Perhaps you read it in Mary Estelle’s novel, A Spell of Darkness.’

‘Yes, maybe. Is it mentioned in there? I really couldn’t say.’

Hobbes gave him no chance to relax. He stepped a little closer and said, ‘Nicholas, Rosamund and your grandmother … There’s no easy way to say this but they’re maddened by the world, each in a different way.’

Kepple spoke softly, brokenly. ‘Yes … yes, I agree.’

‘But you seem to have escaped that fate.’

‘Perhaps … on the surface.’

‘And underneath?’

Kepple moved back slightly, to give himself breathing room. For a moment he looked uneasy, or doubtful. Hobbes couldn’t quite read his expression.

A moment of silence. Neither made a move. Hobbes kept his gaze on Kepple, allowing no escape. He thought the other man might be on the verge of speaking, of confessing to something. ‘You look worried, Mr Kepple.’

‘Me? Well, you know, the police …’ He took a breath, and found a little strength within it. ‘I must say, I find your approach rather aggressive.’

‘Sometimes it’s necessary.’

‘Quite. With hardened criminals.’

‘Some of the cruellest people I’ve met are well-dressed, and well-mannered.’