He thought about grabbing his coat and hat and heading out in search of her. Nonsense, of course, as he had no idea of where she might be and had more than enough work to contend with without embarking on some fruitless pursuit. She insisted on walking every day when he thought she should be resting, but he knew better than to argue with her when she had set her mind on a course of action.

‘There is no need to worry, Will. I’m quite well,’ she had said when he questioned her intentions to venture out unaccompanied on a briskly cold day. ‘But by way of a concession to your fussing, I promise to stop by on my way home.’

She was dressed head to toe in widow’s black. Raven thought she had never been more beautiful. He could not look at her without thinking of how close he had come to losing her entirely.

She had looked around the room, taking in the general disorder.

‘In any case, you are the one who appears to be in need of assistance.’

It was a fair comment, but Raven doubted Dr Simpson would be in any hurry to hire another secretary.

He heard the doorbell ring and looked hopefully out into the hallway, but it was Jarvis who came striding towards him clutching a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.

‘A parcel for you. All the way from Naples,’ the butler said with an undisguised degree of curiosity and an utterly unfamiliar leavening of admiration. ‘A book perhaps,’ Jarvis suggested, ‘though it seems a little light for that.’

Still wary of what any overseas mail might reveal, Raven accepted the package and retreated to the privacy of his room before opening it. He pulled carefully at the wrapping, mindful of damaging whatever might lie beneath, and upon exposing one side of the contents found himself greeted by the sight of his own face.

It was a painting, and the unexpected appearance of his own features was not the only aspect he recognised. The style and the brushwork were unmistakably those of Gabriela, which sent a thrill through him. The painting depicted him lying in repose, his eyes looking to the distance. She always said his thoughts were elsewhere, and now she had illustrated it.

He had not sat for her, and he deduced from the posture that she had sketched him while he was sleeping, then created the rest from memory. It was a flattering and affectionate portrait, one that made him yearn for her company, though not in the physical way he once had. He missed her wisdom, her unorthodox perspective. He thought he could smell her upon the canvas, but perhaps it was that she had often smelled of oil paint and he associated it with her.

Raven delicately pulled away the rest of the wrapping, whereupon a letter fluttered to the carpet. He rested the picture against the wall and bent to pick it up.