It’s the corner alcove in a Japanese teahouse: a recessed space that faces the entrance. It is sacred and easily defiled. Only a single object is displayed there: a calligraphic scroll, a painting, a vase, a spare arrangement of flowers.

‘There is a place of honour in every mind and every system of thought that pretends to be a culture and in it is placed its defining good: god, family, the race, wealth, personal liberty,’ says Notovitch. ‘What’s in yours, Mr Dittami?’

Vincenzo answers without hesitation: ‘My children.’

The old man nods. ‘Then you understand my predicament.’

‘There was nothing to be done.’

It’s not entirely true. Nicolas still chooses to be silent. Like everyone who’s ever made an ignoble compromise with his conscience, he finds plenty of good excuses not to kick up a fuss about the Protocols. What would it achieve? The die is cast. Rachkovsky’s right – their truth or falsehood is beside the point.

The real reason is preverbal – the heart’s unease when his children leave the house, when he thinks of them being stalked by Rachkovsky’s spies. Every now and then, one reports an encounter unusual enough to be a sly message: ‘A very friendly Russian man, Papa. He said he knew your family from Kiev and to say hello.’

‘I confronted my son about his debts.’

Nicolas finds him in his bedroom: at the top of the house, tennis clothes on the floor, posters of cavalry regiments and adverts for patent medicines decorating the walls. Exasperated by the boy’s failure to be tidy, Nicolas and Anya have declared the room off limits to the maid. The result is deepening chaos and a precocious, bachelor funk. Nicolas averts his eyes from a calendar of nude images poking out from beneath the unmade bed. ‘I’ve become aware of the fact that you’re in financial trouble,’ he says.

Alexander’s first response is lies and stonewalling. The boy is eighteen and has his paternal grandfather’s black hair and skinny build. ‘It’s not true, Papa. I swear on my mother’s life!’ Enraged by the boy’s brazenness, terrified by his knowledge of Rachkovsky’s reach and cruelty, Nicolas slaps his face. It is the first time he’s ever raised a hand against one of his children. It’s hard to say which of them is more surprised.

‘At your age, I was writing dispatches on the Turkish wars!’

‘We can’t all be heroes, Dad!’ wails his son, with snotty and plaintive irony.

The truth comes out in a hiccoughing, tear-stained confession while Anya pounds on the locked door and demands to know what’s going on.

‘I’m handling this,’ Nicolas insists.

Alexander has fallen in with a fast set of boys. It’s clear they tolerate his presence because he is from a wealthy family and easily milked of money. Nicolas listens with a toxic sense of guilt. He knows it’s his fault. The boy is insecure and craves acceptance. He’s failed to instil either self-belief or self-reliance in his son. It feels like a shameful echo of his own flight from his identity, the struggle into manhood that began aboard the Derby.