‘It must have been someone else, then. What a fascinating life you lead. Off to Prague to meet the Matricide. Will you say “Boo” or will he?’

John laughed. ‘Keep it under your hat.’

‘Of course I shall.’ What a comical old bugger he is, thought Matilda. This is a real Beclean filthy. ‘The papers keep saying he’s been seen in a new place every day but they haven’t mentioned Prague yet. Why d’you think he went there?’

‘I can’t discuss it any more, Matilda. You know me.’

‘I wonder whether I do. What did he do? What’s his profession? The man who ate the dog is a builder.’

‘I don’t think there’s any connection.’ John got up and poured himself another brandy. How these London people put it away. Matilda shook her head when John made a mute offer.

‘Just the Silly Season.’ Matilda smiled. ‘What was his profession?’

‘He was in publishing, lived not far from here.’ John mentioned the address Matilda had memorized, the house whose key lay in her bag.

‘Oh really? Not a bad area now. It’s grown quite smart. Our mothers thought it beyond the pale, poor old snobs. Have you been there?’

‘Of course not. The police let my people have a look. Nothing to see, naturally.’

Matilda yawned, putting her hand up to her mouth. ‘What an interesting job you have, absorbing,’ repeating herself.

‘Not bad.’ John looked at her hand. Hands showed age more than faces. She was six months younger than he, or was it a year?

‘I must go to bed.’ Matilda stood up. ‘A long day tomorrow.’

‘Shall we meet here, then, for dinner?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Would you like to dine at Wheelers? They have oysters. I have rung them up.’

‘Dear John, I should love it. Sorry – Piers.’ Matilda held up her cheek to be kissed. ‘Goodnight, bless you.’

John kissed the proffered cheek – quite hard, not flabby. ‘Goodnight, bless you.’

‘How easily we say “bless you”. Do we mean it?’

‘Of course we do, Matilda. What can you mean? One always blesses an old friend.’

‘I was joking, Piers, joking.’ Matilda went steadily up to bed, determined not to hurry. In her room she pulled the ribbon off the top of her nightdress and, stringing Hugh’s key on it, wore it round her neck, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was like John to have the most expensive duvet from Harrods. She missed the weight of sheets and blankets and, with a sudden pang, missed the pressure of a dog in the small of her back. She must not think of Stub, it was weakening.