I leaned back in my chair until the freckle on Tom’s eyelid was too small to make out; he remained hunched forward with his elbows on the table. I don’t know how long we sat like that, strangely sad and stuck for anything to say. The waitress gave us a funny look when she came to collect the dirty plates from the adjacent table.

“I’m sorry,” Tom said, and I was too depressed to say Don’t be. I was annoyed with Dad more than him, and myself more than Dad. The radio came on again, louder than before, and we flinched. The waitress carried her loaded tray away, and as she nudged the kitchen door open we heard the slosh and clatter of washing up, and a man humming.

“There’s no need to rush back,” Tom said. “Let’s just enjoy the walk.”

I slowed down to match his pace. Every so often we would stop to stare at one of the flashier yachts, or watch the seabirds, or inhale the fishy stink of the working boats. He was right, of course. There was no reason to hurry.

I kept glancing across the swing bridge into the wooded hills, but Byrne Hall wasn’t visible from the quayside. I wondered if you could glimpse it in winter, when the leaves thinned out. If a fire were lit in one of the grates, might you see a twist of blue smoke rising above the trees?

“Anyhow,” said Tom. “It’s good that you’ve cleared up the mystery of the painting.”

I need to talk to you about Stella. I shrugged the memory away, but Diana’s voice had got stuck in my head and I kept seeing her on the stairs, in her silk pyjamas. Let me tell you what’s going to happen, if you don’t go away.

I had already decided not to mention that part of my visit to Tom; he might conclude there was still some riddle to be solved when there wasn’t. There was just a crazy old lady with half a memory of Stella’s story in the local paper. Perhaps my red-headed resemblance to my dead sister scared her; perhaps she just didn’t like the look of me. Maybe she preferred having her house—and her son—to herself.

“What are you thinking?” Tom whispered as we passed the stone ravens and started up the drive. The contrast after the sunny harbour was startling; it was like entering a church with green walls. If you tipped your head right back, the boughs could be vaults in a lofty ceiling, and the smaller branches curls of Gothic tracery. Cory had asked me what I was thinking just a few hours ago, and I’d said, “I’m happy.”