“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“I don’t believe that name. It’s totally fictitious. Nobody can be called Mogworthy.”

“He is. He tells me there was a parson of that name at Holy Trinity Church, Bradpole, in the late fifteenth century. Mogworthy claims to be descended from him.”

“He could hardly be. If the first Mogworthy was a priest, he would be a Roman Catholic celibate.”

“Well, descended from the same family. Anyway, there he is. He used to live in the cottage which Marcus and Candace now occupy, but George wanted the cottage and kicked him out. He’s now with his aged sister in the village. Yes, Mog’s a mine of information. Dorset is full of legends, most of them horrific, and Mog is the expert. Actually, he wasn’t born in the county. All his forebears were but his dad moved to Lambeth before Mog was born. Get him to tell you about the Cheverell Stones.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Oh, you will if Mog’s around. And you can hardly miss them. It’s a Neolithic circle in a field next to the Manor. The story is rather horrible.”

“Tell me.”

“No, I’ll leave it to Mog or Sharon. Mog says she’s obsessed with the stones.”

The waiter was serving their main courses, and Robin was silent, contemplating the food with gratified approval. She sensed he was losing interest in Cheverell Manor. The talk became desultory, his mind obviously elsewhere, until they were drinking their coffee. Then he turned his eyes on her and she was struck again by the depth and clarity of their almost inhuman blueness. The power of his concentrated gaze was unnerving. Stretching his hand across the table, he said, “Rhoda, come back to the flat this afternoon. Now. Please. It’s important. We need to talk.”

“We have been talking.”

“Mostly about you and the Manor. Not about us.”

“Isn’t Jeremy expecting you? Shouldn’t you be instructing your clients on how to cope with terrifying waiters and corked wine?”

“The ones I teach mostly come in the evening. Please, Rhoda.”

She bent to pick up her bag. “I’m sorry, Robin, but it’s not possible. I’ve a lot to get through before I go to the Manor.”

“It is possible, it’s always possible. You mean you don’t want to come.”

“It’s possible, but at the moment it isn’t convenient. Let’s talk after the operation.”

“That might be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“For a lot of things. Can’t you see that I’m terrified that you might be planning to chuck me? You’re making a big change, aren’t you? Perhaps you’re thinking of getting rid of more than your scar.”

It was the first time in the six years of their relationship that they had ever spoken the word. A taboo never acknowledged between them had been broken. Getting up from the table, the bill paid, she tried to keep the note of outrage from her voice. Without looking at him, she said, “I’m sorry, Robin. We’ll talk after the operation. I’ll be taking a cab back to the City. Is there anywhere that you would like to be dropped?” That was usual. He never travelled by underground.