After tea, Isobel was detailed to show the visitors the Victorian paintings in the long picture gallery at the end of the house. Evelyn’s great-grandfather had been a notable collector of the contemporary art of his day, though like the heather honey at tea, not all the pictures were to everyone’s taste. Shivering dogs crouched mournfully beside coffins; scarlet-cheeked children – obviously about to go down with tonsillitis, suggested Louisa – wearing unrealistically clean pinafores fed ducks by village ponds or sat outside cottages in button boots, surrounded by hollyhocks; knights in armour jousted; the Lady of Shalott floated towards Camelot and lovelorn young ladies prepared to drown themselves, Ophelia-like, in lakes. There were also some charming, somewhat faded water-colours and a good many family portraits of varying dates and merit, including an exceptional one by Sargent of a dark-haired young woman in a dramatic scarlet dress, which everyone admired.

‘But she looks just like you, Isobel!’ exclaimed Morwenna. ‘It reminds me of that stunning portrait in your drawing room – it’s not only her colouring but she has the same amused look you have. It’s uncanny.’

‘That’s Evelyn’s grandmother, who was also my great-grandmother,’ explained Isobel, pleased and flattered. ‘Now let’s go back to the library because I know Evie wants to talk to Marnie – though if anyone would rather go outside again I know that would be all right too.’

The Colonel and Morwenna said they’d love to wander round the garden if nobody minded – there were a few extra notes that Morwenna would like to jot down and the Colonel wanted to take some photographs – but the others went to the library, where Evelyn was once more ensconced in what she mockingly referred to as ‘the electric chair’.

‘Come and sit by me,’ she said to Marnie. ‘Isobel has told me something about your search for a house up here and the reason behind it and I do have a possible idea. I’ve done a bit of preliminary research, but tell me more.’

So Marnie told her about the old lady’s legacy and her own wish to find the childhood home of her unexpected benefactress. ‘I only have my memories of what she told me when I was seven, and these,’ she said, producing the two photographs from her bag and taking off the locket round her neck to show Evelyn. ‘The ridiculous thing is that I don’t even know what her maiden name was – though I suppose the Italian lawyers would be able to discover it easily enough. The whole thing has come as such a bombshell to me that I haven’t really got my act together over lots of things. I just had this immediate compulsion to come up to Scotland and try to track the house down for myself. The initials on the locket areL.A.D.G, so perhaps her surname could begin with G?’