‘I knew, of course,’ his mother went on, ‘that you were having one of your elephantine flirtations with this wretched unhappy creature. I was afraid that you had been fool enough to tell her about your father’s memoirs and all the fuss over Chapter 7. What I must know, now, is how far your affair with her may be said to have influenced her in what she did.’

‘My God!’ George said. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she hope to marry you, George? Did you say things like: “If only you were free” to her?’

‘Yes,’ George said, ‘I did.’ He looked miserably at his mother, and added: ‘You see, she wasn’t. So it didn’t seem to matter.’

Lady Lacklander snorted but not with her usual brio. ‘And the memoirs? What did you say to her about them?’

‘I just told her about that damned Chapter 7. I just said that if Maurice consulted her I hoped she’d sort of weigh in on our side. And I … When that was no use – I – I said – that if he did publish, you know, it’d make things so awkward between the families that we – well –’

‘All right. I see. Go on.’

‘She knew he had the copy of Chapter 7 when he went out. She told me that – afterwards – this morning. She said she couldn’t ask the police about it, but she knew he’d taken it.’

Lady Lacklander moved slightly. Mr Phinn made a noise in his throat.

‘Well, Occy?’ she said.

Mr Phinn, summoned by telephone and strangely acquiescent, said: ‘My dear Lady L., I can only repeat what I’ve already told you, had you all relied on my discretion, as I must acknowledge Cartarette did, there would have been no cause for anxiety on any of your parts over Chapter 7.’

‘You’ve behaved very handsomely, Occy.’

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Believe me, no.’

‘Yes, you have. You put us to shame. Go on, George.’

‘I don’t know that there’s anything more. Except –’

‘Answer me this, George. Did you suspect her?’

George put his great elderly hand across his eyes and said: ‘I don’t know, Mama. Not at once. Not last night. But this morning. She came by herself, you know. Mark called for Rose. I came downstairs and found her in the hall. It seemed queer. As if she’d been doing something odd.’

‘From what Rory tells us she’d been putting my shoes that you’d lent her without my leave, in the downstairs cloakroom,’ Lady Lacklander said grimly.

‘I am completely at a loss,’ Mr Phinn said suddenly.

‘Naturally you are, Occy.’ Lady Lacklander told him about the shoes. ‘She felt of course that she had to get rid of them. They’re the ones I wear for sketching when I haven’t got a bad toe and my poor fool of a maid packed them up with the other things. Go on, George.’