‘He had to come up from London, so they’d had a lot to drink by the time we got there. A lot. Randolph, he didn’t drink as much as the rest of them because he had some sort of a liver thing, but Patrick, John, Francesca, Emiline, the Gibbses – they’d all piled it in. Freda had had plenty to drink too: not as much the others, but enough. She’d told John before they even left for the party, which was probably a lot of the reason. She’d said she owed him the truth before anyone else heard it. I sat there and listened to her telling him about Beatrix, about the fact that she was dying, before Vale and I left for the village, and, honestly, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It was fucking horrible. And just as they’d got themselves together and cleaned themselves up, put a brave face on everything, she went down the track and did it again for seven other people. I remember it so clearly. They were all totally shocked by what she told them – tears, denials, the sort of reaction you’d expect from friends – and then she started talking about Beatrix Steards and it galvanized them.’

‘The mood changed?’

‘Instantly changed. She didn’t have to persuade any of them because they were all on board from minute one. Patrick sat there and talked to them about what he’d already done, what the new plan of attack was, who was going to do what, and once they were all clear on their roles, they cracked open the wine and the beer and got drunk.’

‘So what time did you and Vale turn up?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking out beyond me again. His eyes kept going to the same spot. ‘Nine, maybe. Nine thirty. They’d just made coffee.’

‘And then what happened?’

We looked at each other – me wanting to know, him not wanting to relive it – as frost drifted through the air, blown from the branches by the stirring of the wind.