‘She preferred a sailor. That’s the thing about Aberdeen. You get all sorts. Liquorice?’ He had pulled a stick of the red variety from his pocket. Joan snapped off a piece and munched it. ‘That’s terrible. Did you hear anything of her again?’

‘Her sailor fled with a girl he met in a dance hall. That was years ago. I don’t know what happened after that.’

‘Didn’t you offer to take her back?’

‘No. Perhaps. I don’t know. It’s all a blur sometimes.’ They’d reached the old hunting lodge at the end of the drive. Joan, seeing that Smith was uncomfortable, decided not to pursue the matter further, and changed the subject.

‘We were talking about Timothy Dean. What do you make of him?’ She let go of Smith’s arm and watched him fumble for his key.

‘Eh? Oh yes. Very precognitive. I mean precocious. Very sensitive.’ Joan sighed, realizing that she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Smith about this topic.

‘Well, perhaps you and I could play a hand or two tomorrow evening. Would you like me to cook?’

‘Yes.’ Smith, still failing to open his door, turned and gave her a shy smile. ‘That would be good.’

‘Is there anything you don’t like?’

‘Burnt toast.’

‘Well, I certainly shan’t risk that. I’ll see you tomorrow at seven then, unless our paths should cross beforehand.’

‘Good. Wonderful.’ Smith leaned back jauntily on the door.

Which was, of course, the point at which it opened, he fell inside.

Joan walked off down the lane, waving and laughing.

From the diary of Prof Bernice Summerfield

That night I had one of my doldrums.

I’d picked up a copy of Le Morte D’Arthur from the cottage bookshelf. I wasn’t thinking, obviously. Mind you, since one of the alternatives was A Study in Scarlet, perhaps I should count myself lucky. I could have found myself on the morning train to London, aiming for a tour of the old folks’ homes. Doubtless that would have resulted in me being pursued by a bathchair and its occupant having a heart attack.

I curled up in bed with the bit where Bedivere throws Excalibur back into the lake.

When I was a girl, hiding out alone in the forest (and I have spent so much of my life alone, I’ve just realized that), Mallory and the like were a great comfort. I expected it to be again, and I was, in an odd kind of way, because, almost without realizing that I’d started, after ten minutes I found that I was sobbing my heart out.