“Yes, it must have been awful,” drawled Flynn. “Married to a former fashion-model-turned-successful-charity-fundraiser.” Flynn shook his head in a sorrowful gesture. “You know, Grandma told me all about the other women. She put up with so much from you.” He eyed his grandfather. “I know she can be difficult, but you don’t know how lucky you were.”

His grandfather swallowed. I noticed he had turned pale. There was sudden apprehension in his eyes.

“Grandma supported you when you were a struggling artist. She was there for you right from the beginning.”

Flynn senior’s expression grew tighter.

“Do you know,” started Flynn, his voice threatening to crack with emotion, “I used to think I was missing out when the other kids would speak about going out to the park with their grandfathers. Sounds like I didn’t miss out on much after all.”

Flynn senior’s expression fell further. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no idea what it was like!”

“What is it, Mr Talbot?” piped up Mrs Oates. “What’s wrong?”

He looked wildly to the three of us, as if trying to focus for a moment. “You don’t understand. I thought she might change,” said Flynn senior in a dry whisper. “At least, I hoped she would.” He leant forward in his armchair. “No one knew. I couldn’t tell them. How could I? No one would believe me.”

I leant forward now, my concern spiking. “Mr Talbot?”

He stared past us, lost in his memories.

“Mr Talbot,” I said again. “What is it?”

Gone was the bluff, enraged man from before.

He agonised for a few moments longer, before his paint-daubed fingers reached for the sleeves of his shirt. He gave each of us in turn a frightened look.

Both of his hands were slow, painstaking, as they began to roll back his shirt sleeves.

Flynn senior lifted his bare arms and twisted them at an angle for us to see. The light from the windows highlighted the sudden, aging planes on his distinguished features.

Mrs Oates gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.

I let out a small, horrified noise.

Flynn’s silvery eyes widened in alarm.

“She did this,” croaked the older man, brandishing his marked, disfigured arms to us. “She did this to me for years. Your wonderful, charity-focused grandmother.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The hush in Flynn Talbot’s drawing room was palpable.

The ticking from a clock somewhere was the only sound, accompanied by the occasional bird in the garden, flapping its way across the lawns.

Flynn’s grandfather sat, his shirt sleeves remaining rolled up his arms, so the three of us could witness the pitted ghosts of cigarette burns, weals, and wounds that cluttered his skin.

“I still look like a bloody pin cushion, even after all these years.”