No one knows what passed between them that day, but when at last my grandfather emerged, the gun broken over his arm, the cartridges in his hand, he was ashen. The hunter wasn’t destroyed, but he was swiftly sold. From that moment on, my grandfather demonstrated an almost deferential respect for the young groom, and they could often be found in quiet conversation, despite their disparity in both age and position.

I always thought it strangely fitting it was Jim Burrows that plunged into the flames that night to save Lydia, though tragedy would result for both our families. It was as if the fates of the Marchams and the Burrows were inextricably entwined. And now some would say I owed Annie Burrows my life, but I chose not to dwell on that.

A large yew tree grew to the front of the mausoleum, below which stood a simple bench. The seat planks were split with age and still greasy from the overnight shower, but I drew my coat around me and sat down anyway, impervious to the damp. Perhaps it was macabre of me, but I always found great solace here, sitting in quiet contemplation of those who had passed: my grandmother, my grandfather, Lydia, and now Gerald.

My fingers were drawn once more to my locket. I fumbled with the intricate clasp, until it fell open into its two hinged ovals. I had no interest in the image captured in the right-hand side, a representation of myself I no longer recognised – youthful, optimistic … happy. Instead, I focused my attention on the pale photograph contained in the left. It was a studio portrait, at first glance stiff and formal, but if you looked closely, as I always did, you could see in the eyes a glint of humour, bright enough to shine through the shadow cast by the peaked officer’s cap, and the neat moustache failed to conceal an upward curl of the mouth that hinted at suppressed laughter. I felt the familiar ache in my chest and snapped the locket shut, wiping at the warm trickle in my nose.

‘I saw her come this way. She has taken to sitting under the yew tree when she’s here.’

‘And how has she been?’

I jumped to my feet. The pompous tones of Dr Mayhew had every inch of my body preparing for flight. I had the advantage – whilst I could hear their approach, neither he nor my mother could yet see me. My pulse quickened as I darted out of sight down the far side of the mausoleum, pressing my body against the cold stone, the long, wet grass licking at my stockinged ankles. Closing my eyes, I held my breath. The rim of my hat butted against the stone.

‘Oh!’ Close now, my mother sounded perplexed. ‘I’m sure I saw her come this way.’