“The dead don’t return to visit us either as spirits—whatever that means—or in any other form.”

“But the dead are here! Mary Keyte isn’t at rest. The portraits in this house, those faces—they haven’t left the Manor. I know they don’t want me here.”

She didn’t sound hysterical or even particularly worried. It was a statement of fact. Rhoda said, “That’s ridiculous. They’re dead. They’re beyond thought. I have an old portrait in the house where I live. A Tudor gentleman. Sometimes I try to imagine what he would be thinking if he could see me living and working there. But the emotion is mine, not his. Even if I persuaded myself that I could communicate with him, he wouldn’t speak to me. Mary Keyte is dead. She can’t come back.” She paused and said authoritatively, “I’ll have my tea now.”

The tray was brought in, delicate china, a teapot of the same pattern, the matching milk jug. Sharon said, “I need to ask you, madam, about lunch, whether you want it served here or in the patients’ sitting room. That’s in the long gallery below. There’s a menu for you to choose.”

She took a paper from her cardigan pocket and handed it over. There were two choices. Rhoda said, “Tell the chef I’ll have the consommé, the scallops on creamed parsnips and spinach with duchess potatoes, followed by the lemon sorbet. And I’d like a glass of chilled white wine. A Chablis would be fine. I’ll have it in my sitting room at one o’clock.”

Sharon left the room. Drinking her tea, Rhoda contemplated what she recognised as confused emotions. She had never seen the girl before nor heard of her, and hers was a face she would not easily have forgotten. And yet she was, if not familiar, at least an uneasy reminder of some past emotion, not keenly felt at the time but still lodged in some recess of memory. And the brief encounter had reinforced a feeling that the house held more than the secrets enshrined in paintings or elevated into folklore. It would be interesting to do a little exploring, to indulge once more that lifelong passion to discover the truth about people, people as individuals or in their working relationships, the things they revealed about themselves, the carefully constructed carapaces they presented to the world. It was a curiosity she had now determined to discipline, a mental energy she planned to harness to a different purpose. This might well be her last investigation, if one could call it that; it was unlikely to be her last curiosity. And she realised that it was already losing its power, that it was no longer a compulsion. Perhaps when she had rid herself of the scar it would have gone for good or remained as no more than a useful adjunct to research. But she would like to know more about the inhabitants of Cheverell Manor, and if indeed there were interesting truths to be discovered, Sharon, with her obvious need to chat, might well be the one most likely to reveal them. She had booked in only until after lunch, but half a day would be inadequate even to explore the village and the Manor grounds, particularly as she had an appointment with Sister Holland to look at the operating theatre and recovery suite. The early mist presaged a fine day, and it would be good to walk in the gardens and perhaps beyond. She liked the place, the house, this room. She would ask if she could stay until the following afternoon. And in two weeks’ time she would return for her operation, and her new, untried life would begin.