Because of this and also because of the vodka he’d bought at the service station on the way back to the guesthouse, he slept well despite the excessive warmth of the little room in the eaves. When he was woken by the ringing of his phone the next morning, the grief for Alice and guilt about Marnie, from which he’d been relieved whilst unconscious, returned. He tried to slip straight back into sleep, so he wouldn’t have to face the day, but the phone kept ringing and in the end he pushed himself up on his elbows, leaned back against the flowery pillows and looked at the screen.

It was Saoirse’s sister, Ciara, calling and, knowing that if he answered his voice would give away his drowsiness and his hangover, and not wanting to talk to Ciara anyway, Will diverted the call to voicemail and sent a message saying:

Sorry, I can’t talk right now.

He could tell from the ensuing accusatory ping that Ciara had left a voicemail in reply. He felt a shiver of anxiety. What if Saoirse was seriously ill? No, of course she wasn’t. It was the flu, that was all, nasty but not dangerous. She’d be OK. She was young and fit. They weren’t expecting him to return to London, were they?

No, of course they weren’t. And he wasn’t going to start feeling guilty about Saoirse.

Well, maybe a little guilty. Perhaps he should call Ciara’s partner, Finn, to find out how ill Saoirse really was. Finn was as laid-back as Ciara was uptight and wouldn’t exaggerate or pile on any emotional pressure. But Finn was under Ciara’s thumb, and if they spoke, he would be certain to tell Ciara and that would only cause more trouble.

Best to do nothing and trust that Saoirse would be fine.

Will knew without looking that he was already too late for Mr Bradshaw’s breakfast. Instead he made and drank a cup of black coffee that contained three sachets worth of stale granules and still tasted disgustingly weak while he reread what he’d written about the events of the evening before.

Mr deVillars had left Will alone in the living room of the Big House while he went to fetch ice from the kitchen for the whiskies. Will had wandered over to the bookshelves where the framed photographs were displayed. His eyes had skimmed over a dozen family groupings before they spotted Alice. There she was, his darling girl, in the back garden of the Big House, part of a group of about twenty people standing loosely together. There were lanterns in the branches of the trees, a banner saying ‘Happy Birthday Camille’, a stack of wrapped gifts. Will knew Alice had been to the party. She’d told him she wouldn’t be available that evening because Mrs deVillars had invited her to join the celebrations.