The Grange was visible up ahead, beyond the garden wall. Not a stately mansion by any means, but a venerable old manor, set against the Cotswold hills. Long, two-storied. Some of the original fifteenth-century limestone still in place. Those grand, tall windows on the ground floor, two beautiful gabled oriels flanking the pitched roof above. It had been her mother’s house, built on what had once been Belham abbey’s granary. A double row of copper beeches led away from the broadly arched front door. Through the branches, Sophia could see the ruins of the abbey’s chapel. The right triangle of the shattered wall. The churchyard headstones bowing towards the grass.

“I became very depressed and started to walk,” Sir Michael continued. “Away from the site, into the City. All through the fog, lost. No idea where I was heading. And then—just like some fairy tale—I heard voices, singing. A choir, singing ‘Jerusalem,’ the sound coming to me through the fog. I followed it and, sure enough, I came on a church. St. James it was called, I’ll always remember. Anyway, I went in and, except for the choir, the place was empty. They were rehearsing—for some big occasion, as I recall, something at St. Paul’s. But the place was completely deserted otherwise, and yet there was this choir, still singing to the rafters. A sort of hopeful symbol, I thought. You know—the congregation has departed but the song goes on. By that time, they were singing something else. Something with a lot of hallelujahs. ‘Seek thee first the kingdom of God …’ And one girl stepped forward to do a solo. This lovely creature. With this raven hair, this reverent face. Completely absorbed in the music. Beautiful voice, beautiful. Mezzo-soprano. Timbre like a pearl. ‘And all these things shall be given unto you …’ ” He stopped in the path. He patted the back of his daughter’s hand. “That was the first time I ever saw your mother.”

Sophia tried to smile, but today, somehow, the story turned her heart to lead. She averted her face, looked away, looked off towards the garden shed, just visible through dripping clematis. She was vaguely aware that the caretaker was sitting there. Harry. Straddling the roof. Plucking tacks from between his lips. Tapping them into the side of the rain gutter. Tick-tick, tick-tick

This was going to be one of her black patches, she thought. One of the worst of them ever. She didn’t know if she was going to be able to endure it.

“By the way, while I’m thinking of it,” Sir Michael said. “You know The Magi is coming up at Sotheby’s in a fortnight. I think we should buy it.”