The seats were in a sort of broad, erratic circle on the rug. She, Sophia, was perched on the lyre-backed Adam chair. In white blouse, tan slacks; her legs crossed at the knee. She was facing the other two. Laura on the cushioned settee to her left. Peter draped over the French armchair to her right. Her father’s chair—his enormous Chippendale throne—was empty between them in the falling wedge of sunshine.

Little Simon, Laura’s five-year-old, Sophia’s nephew, was crawling around under the table. Running his Christmas Batmobile over the rug, battling his Batman figure against the tea table’s fierce-looking claw-and-ball leg.

Sophia stirred sugar into her second coffee and observed them. Feeling weary, jaded. Too much work, she thought, too little sleep. Tick-tick, tick-tick. Too many worries. Too many bad dreams. The auction was a fortnight away now. Whoever buys the painting, Sophia … The voice of that poor Resurrection Man was hardly ever out of her hearing. He is the Devil from Hell. And then his body in the Thames. Tick-tick. His earnest face staring with those gore-drenched sockets—an awful image for her to wake from, alone in bed.

Never exactly the cheeriest soul even at the best of times, Sophia was afraid she was entering one of her really black patches. Which probably accounted for this cynical sense that she was reading life between the lines.

“Darling, do come away from the tea table,” said Laura, for about the third time. A sweet-faced woman with still-silky, still-blond hair. But frantic eyes, and her mouth pinched. “It’s Grandpa’s antique. You’ll scratch the finish. You’ll upset the pot. Come away before you break something. Why don’t you play over by the window?”

The subtitle: It kills me that you’re enjoying the Batman car Aunt Sophie gave you, when Mummy bought you a perfectly good pirate ship and enough connector sticks to build the Taj Ma Bloody Hal.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, would you leave the poor boy alone, Laura.” This came from Peter. From behind his Guardian. Which he was reading with his leg—in jeans—swinging over the arm of his chair so that the antique walnut creaked. The subtitle being: I’m not afraid of Father. Which, of course, he was. Sophia, tasting her coffee, thought: And he must’ve driven five miles before breakfast to buy that paper too. As if having a few opinions and voting Labour made him Danton.

Laura, who could not stand disapproval of any kind, immediately left off Simon—who was ignoring her anyway—and went on the direct attack. “You’re looking absolutely beautiful this morning, Sophia. Although how anyone can look beautiful at eight-thirty in the morning, I really don’t know. I always tell Spencer that if he wanted me to be spectacular round the clock, he shouldn’t have asked for a son and heir.”