MacFarlane sipped and appreciated. He waited until Mrs. Fox had taken two good sips of her sherry and then embarked on his interview.

“Tell me about your son, Mrs. Fox. Your son, Sydney.”

“Syd’s dying. Haven’t you heard? You’ve come the wrong way. You should have gone south to London. The hospice annex of St. Thomas’s Hospital. He turned his face to the wall two weeks ago. I’m expecting the bad news any moment.” And, suspiciously, “Are you the bearer of that bad news? Are you sure that’s not why you’re here? No? Well, my Syd’s a good son. He’s leaving me well provided for. I went down to see him—oh, a month ago to say goodbye, and he informed me of his testamentary dispositions. I am to keep this house and have a good pension for life.” She sighed. “Such as it will be for a widow who’s about to lose her one remaining son.”

“And he served in South Africa, I understand. Did he tell you about his time down there?”

“He wrote me a letter every week. The post was better in those days before the war, even the post coming from South Africa.”

“Do you still have his letters?” MacFarlane tried to keep an eager edge from his tone.

“No. That was one of his last requests. He told me to burn all his correspondence and the family photographs.”

“What! Bit odd, that. Did you, Mrs. Fox?”

“Half and half. I burned the letters but kept the photos. Not his right to say, I thought. There were more people in those pictures than Sydney. They were family studies. His father and two older brothers as well, and I wasn’t going to erase them from my life on a whim from Syd.” She took another fortifying sip of sherry.

“Quite right. I’ve been trying to get hold of a picture of Sydney in his prime. Would you mind?”

“Only if you’re prepared to come clean and tell me why you want to know what Syd looks like.”

A few moments later and the maid was returning with the family album. She pulled out a small table and sited the ornate leather-backed book on it by her mistress’s armchair. MacFarlane pulled up a chair opposite and settled in for a surprisingly comfortable chat with the old lady. He’d done this dozens of times with his elderly aunts, and he knew which remarks produced a response.

“So tell me, Beattie—which of these handsome lads is the eldest?”

“That’s Joel.”

“And this is?”

“Henry . . .”

The story, mostly a sad one, unrolled.

“Then this little bubble-haired scallywag must be—Sydney.”