‘How extravagant,’ said Calypso. ‘I love extravagance. What can I give in return? We will eat the figs with one of Willy Guthrie’s smoked hams. You know he married a girl called Poppy Carew?’

‘I was at the wedding.’ Martin followed his aunt into the house.

‘So you were. We’ll eat in the kitchen.’

‘I need a little info, Aunt. I’ve lost my umbrella, mislaid would put it better, and the people who have it are—’

‘Are what? Are who?’

‘Some people called Thornby.’

Calypso laughed. ‘Everybody knows the Thornbys. They are poison, surely your snooping told you that?’

‘You know my little ways.’ Martin watched Calypso lay a place for him. ‘They seem to have a daughter who wears green.’

‘But in my opinion, for what it’s worth, she is not poisonous,’ said Calypso.

Martin asked: ‘Shall I open a bottle? She was at a concert I went to.’

Calypso handed him a corkscrew and began carving ham which stood on a dish on the kitchen table. ‘I bet you are hungry,’ she said. ‘The daughter is called Laura, no doubt you found that out. She has a business in London, no doubt you found that out too—’ There was a lack of approval in her tone which Martin chose to ignore.

‘Would you know her address?’ he asked. ‘In London?’

‘No, but I have the telephone number somewhere.’

‘That will do. Thanks, Aunt.’ Martin sat down to his ham.

‘I hope you are not in a rush to leave,’ said Calypso. ‘Share out the figs, love.’

‘I have some time off.’ Martin chose the best figs for his aunt.

‘Stay the night,’ she suggested. ‘There’s a bed made up.’

‘May I? There’s something I have to do later this evening.’

‘Nefarious?’ asked Calypso.

‘Just some ends to tie—’

‘I like Laura Thornby,’ said Calypso coldly.

‘I have no intention of hurting her,’ said Martin huffily.

‘That’s all right, then. I’ll give you a key in case I’ve gone to bed when you get back.’

‘What made you think I might hurt her?’ In spite of himself Martin was edgy.

Calypso chewed her ham, sipped her wine. ‘Have you really mislaid Otho’s umbrella? I remember it well. Never, of course, playing the part of a Trojan horse.’ She glanced at Martin, who was peeling a fig. ‘Your grandfather never carried it furled. It looked pretty funny flopping loose when otherwise he was so exactly turned out; he had such a courteous way of offering its shelter when it rained at the races.’

‘He loved pretty girls.’ Martin ignored the suggestion of the Trojan horse. Calypso always made one’s most delicate endeavours look clumsy.

Calypso smiled, accepting the refusal. ‘I don’t know what he would have been like as a lover, but he was excellent company.’

Martin, remembering his old aunt’s racy reputation, ventured: ‘He sympathised with me once for being too young for you and said that he alas was too old; I was about six at the time. It made an impression. Why don’t you bridle, Aunt?’ he teased.