‘He’s on a fairly strict regime now. We can’t really give him drinks as usual, because his kidneys are not working too well. He gets another drink at one o’clock. Treize heures, as the French say.’

Treize heures? Why is she saying that? She doesn’t speak French.

‘I’ll ask the chef to prepare you your usual, Lady Trevelyan-Tubal.’

‘Estelle, please, call me Fleur. It’s sort of oppressive now, at this time. This formality I mean. We’re in this together.’

Estelle walks stiffly and squarely towards the kitchen. She doesn’t accept Fleur’s offer of camaraderie. Her feet clatter on the flags as if they, at least, are protesting. There’s a strong scent – an oily gust – of rosemary from the garden where one of the Algerians is cutting and weeding. She walks to the hall and looks at the Matisse, which Harry said he would leave her, but obviously changed his mind. Maybe they could get him on to the boat and take him around the bay that he loves. The painting, he was fond of saying, was a revolution in perspective, drawing the eye through the window and out into the distance. Matisse liked the sense that the infinite space came seamlessly up against the domestic, to make one space. The focal point is nothing specific, but you cannot help searching. Perhaps now he thinks that the far distance, the cheerful blue sea beyond the masts of the moored boats, is where he is headed.

She finds Estelle in the kitchen. A tray is laid with coffee and tuiles aux amandes.

‘Estelle, I have had an idea. Wouldn’t it be nice to take Harry out on the boat? Do you think he would like it?’

‘The boat’s having a refit. Julian wanted it done.’

‘Julian? It’s his father’s boat.’

‘Apparently the engines weren’t working and Julian sent the boat to the boatyard. He asked me to tell Sir Harry.’

‘Oh. OK.’