I went into the courtyard of the mansion house, and when they asked who I was I simply gave them my name and said I was there to have lunch with my great-aunt. Nobody asked me another thing and I was smoothly directed to a terrace overlooking magnificent gardens.

‘Madame de Rigny said she wished to dine in the garden as it’s such a beautiful day. She’ll be here in a few minutes, while her daughter parks the car in the courtyard.’

Finding myself surrounded by all this beauty, I let out a sigh of contentment, noting in surprise the ease with which I was adapting to the comforts money can procure.

Yvonne, the almost-centenarian, arrived on the arm of a butler, who deposited her delicately on a chair opposite mine with the same caution one might deploy handling a priceless antique vase.

‘Your great-niece is already here. She’s waiting for you.’

‘Perfect, perfect!’

She seemed delighted to see me or, more accurately, the hundreds of facelifts she’d had meant that her perpetually wide-open eyes and mouth, the latter pulled into an eternal smile, lent her the radiant look of a woman who was completely off with the fairies.

‘Is everything alright, pet?’

It was surreal.

‘Yes, aunt. I’ve come to see you because I’m planning on writing a sort of family history, but I’m missing the ending.’

‘The ending?’

At this, her mind must have wandered off, because she repeated the word several times with a beatific smile.

Not a great start.

Suddenly, just as Tata and I were sitting there getting along just fine, the silhouette of an enormous piss-pot, the spitting image of Adrienne but with an added thirty years and thirty kilos, and with the same Tagada-strawberry-flavoured e-cigarette hanging from her mouth, blocked out the sun.

‘And who are you?’

‘My name’s Blanche de Rigny and as I was just telling your mother, I’m looking into our family history and, in particular, our common forebear, Auguste, the brother of your great-grandfather, Ferdinand.’

While I was speaking I pulled out my ID, which she fiddled with, looking completely dazed and confused.

‘Common with who? What? Is it money you want?’

‘No, not at all, I only wanted to ask you – well, you or your brother – if you know when and in what circumstances the notorious Auguste died, because there’s nothing in his records at births, deaths and marriages, and so obviously it’s complicated trying to work out what happened to him . . .’

‘My brother died in Africa.’

‘I’m talking about your other brother; your twin brother, Pierre.’

At that, her wino’s eyes glazed over with rage and she brought her face so close to mine that the ethylene coming from her breath pretty well singed my skin. Her entire body reeked of alcohol like an old sponge that had been used to soak up a puddle of cheap booze.

‘How dare you!’