And he would reply? I was Lacroix of the Hussars. I cannot say, sir, with any certainty, what I am now . . .

“I heard wolves in Spain,” he said to Ranald.

“In Egypt,” said Ranald, “I saw the Sphinx.”

They passed from beach to beach, climbing the spurs of land between them and descending past boulders and rock-pools, the dark-haired woman taking her sister’s arm where the path was steepest. The loudest noises were from the birds. They all sounded angry. And beneath this screeching, the growl of the sea, an old lion licking its paws.

Then it was heathland again, green, brown and yellow. Sheep observed them mildly. Stout lambs butted at their mother’s teats. There was no sign of the shepherd, and now they had left the weed burners behind the landscape’s only human mark was a white house half a mile off, close to the sea. The pony became purposeful, picked up its pace. The house grew bigger, showed green shutters, a green front door. It was not like the other houses he had seen on the island. It had, for a start, an upper floor and did not have a roof weighted down with stones or a curved end-wall to lean into the wind. It stood almost casually on the bare land, unsheltered from the sea and what it might bring. A place waiting for some once-in-a-century storm to erase all sign of it.

He rode to the green door. Ranald helped him to dismount. As soon as his feet were on the ground he had a violent cramp in his bowels. He gasped, gripped hold of the stirrup. He was afraid he would foul himself, shoot hot crap down his legs, shoot it over the women, over the house, the entire island. He gritted his teeth, swallowed, waited for it to pass, then drew himself up. The women were watching him. He made a remark about the view. How pleasant it was. He had noticed before how men can say quite mild things, even while dying.

But I am not dying, he thought. I have not earned that yet.

Beyond the green door was a small hall, just big enough for coats and boots and hats. Through a second door they entered a larger room. It appeared to run most of the length of the house, had a door at either end, a flight of steep, narrow stairs by the right-hand wall.

Sitting at a table by the window was a man with a thin moustache. He was wearing a bed gown decorated with hieroglyphics, the sleeves rolled back to the elbows. He had a bowl of water and was washing something in it. He looked up and smiled. A pale, intelligent face.

“Not Thorpe then,” he said.

“No,” said the dark-haired sister.

“Cornelius Frend,” said the man. “At your service.”

“Friend?” said Lacroix.

“Our brother,” said the woman.

“Ah,” said Lacroix. “Lovall. John Lovall. My apologies for this . . . intrusion.”