Emily made up their fire, gave Peregrine a book to read and went to the kitchen. The onion soup was prepared and only needed heating. She cut up bread into snippets and heated butter in a frying pan. She opened a bottle of burgundy and left it to breathe.

‘Emily!’ called Peregrine.

She hurried back to the study.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’m all right. I’ve been thinking. Nina. She won’t be satisfied with the chronic gallstones or whatever. She’ll just think my chronic thing’s coming back now is another stroke of bad luck.’

They had their dinner on trays. Emily tidied them away and they sat with modest glasses of burgundy over their fire.

Peregrine said: ‘The sword and the photograph? Are they connected?’

‘Why should they be?’

‘I don’t know.’

The doctor came. He made a careful examination and said there were no bones broken but there was severe bruising. He made Peregrine do painful things.

‘You’ll survive,’ he said facetiously. ‘I’m leaving something to help you sleep.’

‘Good.’

‘Don’t go prancing about showing actors what to do.’

‘I’m incapable of even a teeny-weeny prance.’

‘Jolly good. I’ll look in again tomorrow evening.’

Emily went to the front door with the doctor. ‘He’ll be down at the theatre on Monday come hell or high water,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t want the cast to know he fell on a sword. What could he have? Something chronic.’

‘I really don’t know. Stomach cramp? Hardly.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Diverticulitis?’ he suggested. And then: ‘Why on earth are you laughing?’

‘Because it’s a joke word.’ Emily put on a grave face, raised her eyebrows and nodded meaningfully. ‘Diverticulitis,’ she said in a sepulchral voice.

‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ said the doctor. ‘Is it something to do with superstitions?’

‘That’s very clever of you. Yes. It is. In a way.’

‘Good night, my dear,’ said the doctor, and left.

IV

Rehearsals went well during the first four days of the next week. The play had now been completely covered and Peregrine began to polish, dig deeper and make discoveries. His bruises grew less painful. He had taken a high hand and talked about his ‘tiresome tum’ in a vague, brief and lofty manner and, as far as he could make out, the cast did not pay an enormous amount of attention to it. Perhaps they were too busy.