Eltham Palace was built on a peaceful hilltop that separated Kent from London. It had been given to Edward II in 1305 by the Bishop of Durham and from this time until the middle of Henry VIII’s reign, it was one of the main residences of England’s kings and queens. During the Civil War the palace was ransacked and shattered, the deer in the parks were slaughtered and it never recovered.

When Stephen and Ginie first saw it, there were bits of wall strewn around the overgrown garden and only the medieval great hall was still standing; an impressive Gothic structure, enclosed by a moat. The hall had been used as a barn. It was fitted with a range of cow stalls at one end, and it held the lingering smells of hay, animal hides and dung. Although dilapidated, it was still intact and the tracery on the open timber roof beams was virtually unscathed.

‘It’s called a hammerbeam roof,’ Paul explained. He had a pale face with pointed ears like a faun’s and brown eyes that glowed with intelligence. ‘This is the third largest roof of its kind in England, after Westminster Hall and Christ Church, Oxford.’ They all gazed upwards. ‘Edward III founded the Order of the Garter in this hall,’ he continued, with his best tour guide patter, ‘and Eltham was the favourite Christmas resort of kings like Richard II and Henry IV. Imagine the feasts, tournaments and hunting expeditions that must have been held here.’

‘It’s quite extraordinary,’ Ginie replied softly.

When they had finished looking round, Paul said: ‘Now, dear people, I’m going take myself off to the car and leave you to discuss everything in peace.’

The Courtaulds followed him out of the hall. There was something dreamy about it, peaceful and dreamy. The long straight avenue of limes to the south almost had the air of a cathedral close and the fifteenth-century bridge still crossed the moat. They stood on the old ivy-covered bridge, watching ducks bobbing on the water and admiring the camellia tree blooming thickly beside it, and wondered how many people had walked over the bridge through the years.

It was a clear day with plenty of sunshine and a snap in the air. Stephen brought a spyglass out of his pocket and they took turns looking through it. They were close enough to London that they could see the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral rising into the sky.

‘This must have been the perfect vantage-point for royalty,’ he said, ‘Far enough from the pressures of the city that the king could think about his problems and plan his strategy, yet close enough to reappear quickly and take control when necessary.’

Ginie smiled inwardly, thinking that exactly the same could be said of her if they ended up living here. He tucked the glass back in his pocket and turned to face her.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’