‘Wasn’t brisk enough to avoid that tea-tray.’

‘She was frightened,’ Hugh expostulated.

‘I bet she was.’ Matilda, reaching the kitchen, poured the coffee into a pan to reheat.

‘Help yourself. I’m off.’ But she lingered in the doorway, obviously wanting to say something more. Hugh looked enquiringly over the rim of his cup. ‘You must think I don’t love my children from the way I talk about them.’

‘You seem a bit – well, casual.’

‘They will like me better out of the way, the girls especially.’

‘Why?’

‘They think I love Claud best. Those dresses upstairs are dresses he pinched from them. Claud is far more beautiful than either Louise or Anabel, far more attractive.’

‘You said he is gay.’

‘In more ways than one.’ Matilda laughed. ‘He went to a party in one of those dresses in the days when boys wore their hair long. He snitched all the girls’ fellows, quite disrupted Anabel’s life – it was a dreadful evening.’ Matilda grinned reminiscently. ‘Louise had the big feller – she called him her “feller” – he went over the moon and as for Anabel’s boy – well –’

‘What happened?’

‘Claud lives in New York.’ Matilda turned on her heel and went off leaving Hugh sitting at the table, holding a cooling cup of coffee, wondering about her. With the kitchen knife in his other hand he tapped a tune on the deal table, trying to remember his actions of the last days. Then, followed by the dog, he left the house and let himself through the gate into the wood, walking along the stream until he found a patch of sunlight and sat down to watch it cunningly run and circle over the stones. Stroking the dog, who came to loll beside him, he reviewed the jumble of thoughts and terrors which had accompanied him ever since he killed his mother. They could perhaps be looked at clearly now that he had stopped running. He was puzzled that he had run at all. Why had he not stayed? Why take flight, leaving the tray flung down beside her dead body? She had looked peaceful, composed, happier than he had seen her for a long time, certainly happier than during the preceding moments when she had been in a state of extreme terror.

The extraordinary moment with the tray was clear enough, but he was still puzzled by his actions afterwards, his instant flight to his car, leaving his mother, the tray flung down beside her. She was dead. What seemed callous was that he had stopped at the bank in the town to cash as large a cheque as he could without drawing attention to himself. To be overcome by panic was unforgivable. He had driven to London, left his car in Hans Crescent then taken the Knightsbridge tube. Since then he had been on the move, expecting every minute a hand on his shoulder.