I was learning fast about the country that might have produced me. ‘So what about the Aires Cabrals?’

‘Well, interestingly, they were pure Portuguese, until Izabela, your potential great-grandmother, arrived on the scene. Her father was a very rich man of Italian extraction, who, like many at the time, had made a fortune from coffee. And reading between the lines, I presume that the Aires Cabrals had fallen on hard times, like so many of the lazy, aristocratic families had. Izabela was very beautiful and from a wealthy family, and so one can only presume a deal was struck.’

‘So it’s fair to say your conclusions are supposition rather than fact at this point?’ I asked him.

‘One hundred per cent supposition. Which, apart from dates and the odd letter and diary, is always the case when one is first investigating an historical situation,’ Floriano qualified. ‘Nothing can ever be certain, because the voices one must hear from to confirm the story definitively are no longer with us. As an historian, you have to learn to put the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle together to create the whole picture.’

‘Yes. I suppose you’re right,’ I mused, understanding what he meant.

‘Of course, with the age of the internet and everything now recorded on it, history and the research of it will change. We are entering a new era where there will be fewer secrets, fewer mysteries that need to be uncovered. Thank God I’m also a novelist, because Mister Wikipedia and his friends have usurped my position as an historian. My memoirs when I’m old will be worthless; my story will be there for all to see on the web.’

I thought about this as Floriano – without even asking me to point him in the right direction – turned into the drive of A Casa das Orquídeas.

‘How did you know exactly where it was?’ I asked in amazement as he parked confidently in front of the house.

‘My dear Maia, your potential long-lost family is famous in Rio. Every historian knows this house. It is one of the few remnants left of a lost era. So,’ he said, switching off the engine and turning to me. ‘Ready to go?’

‘Yes.’

With Floriano leading the way, we approached the house and walked up the front steps.

‘The bell doesn’t work,’ I told him.

‘Then I will knock.’

And so he did. Loudly, as if to wake the dead. Receiving no response within thirty seconds, Floriano banged on the door again, even harder this time, which brought the sound of feet running on tiles towards it from the inside. I then heard bolts being drawn back and locks turned. Finally, the door was pulled open and I saw the grey-haired African maid whom I’d encountered on my last visit standing on the threshold of the house. As soon as she saw me, her features contracted in recognition and panic.

‘Sorry for disturbing you, senhora, but my name is Floriano Quintelas. I am a friend of Senhorita D’Aplièse. I can assure you we do not wish to disturb or unsettle your mistress. However, we have some information that we think may well be interesting to her. I am a well-respected historian and also a novelist.’