The show was called ‘From Rembrandt to Picasso’, and they had succeeded in the formidable task of securing at least one work by almost every famous European artist within that period. The rich canvases glowed in the hazy July sunshine falling through the windows, and Stephen allowed himself a moment of quiet pride.

‘This is so inspired, so beautiful,’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘You do things so magnificently. It is likely the finest collection ever to cross the equator.’

The exhibition consisted of several parts: European Old Masters and Modern Masters, Traditional African Sculpture, Picasso and the Expressionists, and a small section showing the influence of Africa on twentieth century western schools. Frank and Stephen had pressed ahead with the African exhibits, despite a marked absence of support from the authorities. Elizabeth paused for several moments in front of a portrait of her late husband, George VI, done by Sir Gerald Kelly, which hung at the top of the main staircase. Stephen and Frank waited at a respectful distance, aware that it was a poignant moment for her.

Afterwards, she said a few words to the guests who were assembled in the main gallery, praising the building as well as the exhibits. It was met with applause, and waiters began to circulate with trays of refreshments: smoked salmon canapés, oysters and cold, crisp champagne to toast the success of the opening. Across the room Stephen could see Ginie flushed with excitement, her eyes shining.

People came up to congratulate him and he wished with all his heart that Guthrie was there. None of their neighbours had turned up, apart from the Richardsons, who had arrived in Salisbury a few days earlier. Ginie was upset with Mark for reporting Mary and hadn’t wanted to invite him, but Stephen had overridden her, feeling that it would be unwise to alienate him.

‘Diana is happy to be here,’ said Mark, ‘but I must admit that I’m longing to be back in the forest.’ He seemed ill at ease in a suit and tie.

Diana was virtually mute. She was wearing a new dress of sky-blue silk, but she looked sickly, with a heavy bandage on her arm. Stephen asked what had happened.

‘It was a cooking accident,’ she shook her head, trying to smile, ‘I spilt hot fat on myself. Silly of me.’ As she spoke, her eyes flickered this way and that, and Stephen suspected she was lying. He wondered briefly if Mark could have hurt her, but Frank took him off to meet one of the aldermen of Salisbury and he forgot all about the Richardsons.