‘There was a great deal of concern in the States. Time, Newsweek. And the New York Times was divine about me. It, of course, was certain that I was finished and wrote a sort of glowing obituary. They have never been so kind since. You probably missed out on my accident. I am not overly known in the UK. But continental Europe adores me. And Japan – my God! how Japan goes for me. Of course they are a violent people, and I tend to write fairly violent books …’ He finished his wine in a single swallow and thrust the glass towards Jojo. ‘I am so dry after all that tedium. Now, accident dealt with. Nothing killed me. I was merely maimed.’

Jojo replenished his glass. ‘So. Where are we? Ah! James, that is so.’

Jojo was now spread-legged in the zebra skin chair, one hand caressing his chest. ‘That’s what it is,’ he said. ‘We are at James right now.’

‘You would appear to have lost your brother, Mr Caldicott? And that may seem careless to you, but James was always rather a wanderer. You knew that, of course? He never stayed put for very long.’

‘No. I didn’t really know that. I have been here a week trying to find a trace of him, to find out why he, well … wandered … if there is anyone who might assist me?’

Brent Millar sat back, a small smile on the lips of what had once been an exceptionally handsome face. Fine mouth, strong jaw, good nose, well-spaced eyes of an intense blue, a face which had been, just as Jojo considered his to be presently, ‘patrician’, but all the splendid attributes were now deep sunk into a marshmallow blubber of yellow flesh, chins flopping cruelly over his heavy-breasted chest. Only the brilliance of his eyes remained. Sapphires in putty.

‘Tell me,’ he said softly, ‘just from the beginning. It’ll all be so interesting; to know what you know …’

And so I told him in brief. As clearly as I could without stretching detail, trying to condense for fear of repetition and boredom. But my audience (for Jojo was now eagerly sitting forward) was very attentive. I only refrained from speaking at all about Florence. She merely figured in my story as ‘his wife’. No more. When I had finished, there was a short silence.

‘Twelve years’ difference. It’s a long time,’ said Mr Millar.

‘And all the years since he left England. It adds up to a lifetime.’

‘Indeed. And why, pray, have you come to me? What led you to L’Hermitage?’