“I like her novels. I don’t know why she does all that telly crap, though. You’d hardly believe the same person writes the books and the telly series. Still, it must keep the wolf from the door.”

“You can discuss the matter with her yourself. She’s arriving later this evening. Try not to be too abrasive, darling.”

Lindsay laughed. “Whatever you say, Paddy. So the book auction rounds the day off, does it?”

“Far from it. The high point is in the evening—a concert given by our most celebrated old girl, Lorna Smith-Couper.”

Lindsay nodded. “The cellist. I’ve never seen her perform, but I’ve got a couple of her recordings.”

“More than I have. I’ve never come across her, as far as I know. She had left before I came to the school—I didn’t get here till the fifth form. And it’s not my music, after all. Give me Dizzy Gillespie any time.”

“All that jazz still the only thing you’ll admit is music, then? You’ll not be able to help me, in that case. I’d love to get an interview with Lorna Smith-Couper. I’ve heard she’s one of the most awkward people to get anything out of, but maybe the good cause together with the old school ties will make her more approachable.”

Paddy turned the Land Rover into a sweeping drive. She stopped inside the heavy iron gates, leaned across Lindsay, and pointed. “See that folly on the hill over there? It’s called Solomon’s Temple. If you look straight left of it, you can just see a corner of the stupid green acres that all this fuss is about.” There was an edge in her voice and they drove on in silence. Ahead of them stood Derbyshire House, an elegant mansion like a miniature Chatsworth. They swung round a corner of the house and dropped down into a thick coppice of birch, sycamore, and rowan trees. After a hundred yards, they emerged in a large clearing where six modern stone blocks surrounded a well-tended lawn.

“The houses,” said Paddy. “About half of the girls sleep in the main building and the more senior ones sleep here,” she pointed as she spoke, “in Axe, Goyt, Wildboarclough, and my house, Longnor. The two smaller ones, Burbage and Grin Low, are for teachers and other staff.”

“My God,” said Lindsay, “the only thing this verdant near my school was the bloody garden of remembrance behind the local crematorium.”

“Very funny. Come on, Lindsay, do stop waving your origins around like a red flag and have a drink. I can feel this is going to be a good weekend.”

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