‘Our own kind. Far too much new blood in this country. And so you see, well, we know, Rose – may I call you Rose? – we know there are some things that need to stay in the closet, as it were. And of course,’ he took my hand. I felt a wave of nausea, ‘of course, I like to take care of my own.’

I couldn’t suppress the sound of disbelief. He looked at me, his eyes steely, and the fatherly air dissipated.

‘I’m so sorry about your husband’s arrest.’

‘Oh.’ I stared at him stupidly. ‘You’ve heard.’

‘Of course. I met young James at Oxford, you remember. He’s done well, I believe. A great entrepreneur, no doubt. But – prison, I believe … not fun.’

‘No. Not fun.’

‘Poor man. Oh dear, Rose.’ Higham let go of my hand as quickly as he’d taken it. He turned the vase around until the flower drooped its weary head towards me. ‘O Rose, thou art sick! I remember that poem from my schooldays. Pretty creepy, I always thought.’ He smiled at me, a rather ghastly smile. ‘Are you the sick rose, Mrs Miller?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I mumbled.

‘And if so, who, I wonder, is that nasty little worm?’

‘There isn’t one.’ Panic was building slowly but inexorably in my chest. I felt like I was headed into a tunnel and I could just about see the light at the end.

‘Isn’t there? You’re a fan of Blake, I suppose?’ he said.

‘Not really.’ And the end was about to be blocked before I reached it.

‘My son liked his later work, of course. All the nationalistic stuff about poor Albion. I have great sympathies for that, especially today.’

‘Why?’ I held his gaze.

‘Who would ever have believed the BNP would be ascending as they are now? Such oiks really, which is a shame. Still, overcrowded and buffeted Britain.’ Higham downed the last of his brandy. ‘We have to make a stand, don’t you think, Rose?’

‘Against what?’

‘Immigration? Integration?’

‘No, actually.’ I felt sickness in my craw. ‘I really don’t.’

‘That’s a shame.’ He sighed deeply. ‘But I digress. And I’m forgetting how well you knew Dalziel. You would remember all his little foibles.’

‘I’m not sure that I did actually.’ I looked at his father. ‘Know him that well, I mean.’

Where was this all going?

‘Dalziel loved all those dreadful flouncy angels flapping about in Blake’s art.’ He tapped his cigar on the table again. ‘Before he became obsessed with bloody Milton, anyway. Ridiculous obsession. I never understood it.’

One of the cream petals had a tiny stain of burgundy on it. Like wine. Or blood. I stared at it.

‘Dalziel once told me,’ I cleared my throat, ‘he once said he thought his mother was a fallen angel.’