Her expression changed to part disgust and part pity. “The clinic?” she said. “This is a convalescent home, my dear. You’ll be thinking of Haseldene. It’s about a mile from here along the road to Findon.”

As I thanked her she followed me to the front door. “It’s a good walk,” she said. “Are you up to it? Should I call a taxicab for you?” And I realized then that she thought I was a potential patient, not a visitor. Also that she knew full well what went on at Haseldene.

It was not what I’d usually call a long walk. But today the wind whipped off the Channel and rain threatened, making the going unpleasant. I asked the only two people I met if they knew where I’d find a house called Haseldene and at last I came to it. It was set back in well-landscaped grounds and looked like any other white and modern seaside house with the curved lines of art deco design. The brass plaque on the white surrounding wall said Haseldene, but nothing else. No mention of its function.

During the train ride I had tried to think of what on earth I could possibly say. I was sure such places prided themselves on confidentiality. Should I pretend to be a patient and then see if I could slip into the office to see the records? That was too risky. If they examined me they’d know I did not need their services. I decided that the best course of action might be to come clean. I’d tell the matron who I was and that a scandal about Bobo’s child was threatening the royal family. Had she named the father?

It had seemed possible as I journeyed down through Sussex. Now it seemed like frightful cheek, even if I was a royal relative. I fully expected to be thrown out on my ear. I was about to knock on the door when I noticed that it was slightly open. A new idea crept into my head. Maybe I could sneak in, undetected, and have a chance to look at their records. If I was caught, I’d say I’d come to check out the place for a friend.