“I told you, I’d have expected you to be more concerned about their behaviour.”

“If you mean going places your aunt went, I’m hoping it lets them work her out of their system. Or have you something else on your mind? It’s not at all like you to object to anybody showing interest in your aunt.”

“Their kind is different. Even I think it may be too much.”

“Then you should take it up with Roy yourself. How do you know they’ve been collecting what you call souvenirs? Is he keeping them at your flat?”

“No, but—”

“And they certainly aren’t at my house. Have you even seen them?”

“Bella must have them wherever she lives.”

“In other words you haven’t. I wonder if there’s more to this than you’re admitting.”

“Tell me what there would be.”

“Do you suppose you might be a little jealous?”

“Jealous?” When this failed to convey all my disbelief I said “Of what?”

“Of our son and the relationship he seems to be developing. You do seem rather anxious to undermine it.”

“I’m nothing of the sort if it’s good for him.”

“If it is.” Once she’d made it plain that the doubts were wholly mine Julia said “You might want to be a bit more careful round her, Patrick.”

“Careful of what?”

“You were getting rather affectionate yesterday. You gave her quite a hug.”

“That was her, if you noticed. She gave it to me.”

“You shouldn’t blame a girl of her age. At the very least it’s irresponsible.”

“Whatever age you think that is.”

“That’s the kind of excuse worse men than you make. At least, I hope you aren’t like them.” As I tried to gather words to use in not too furious a retort, Julia said “I hope we’ve said all we need to say about her now. Speak to me if you need to talk about your loss.”

I couldn’t judge whether she was inviting this immediately or later, nor did I care. “I don’t,” I said.

“Just look after yourself,” Julia said, which I could have taken for a warning not to interfere, and ended the call.

For a moment I thought a dormant voice was making itself heard on my phone, but a train in the station was counselling vigilance. On the horizon a solitary windmill in the middle of the rank stirred as though regaining life and then reverted to emulating its neighbours. I went back to poring over Colin Wilson, determined to read him more attentively than he appeared to have treated some of the texts he’d read. I wished I could approach the book more carelessly, because the theme of the need for magic had grown less than welcome. I’d just learned that both Crowley and Strindberg believed they could render themselves invisible when my phone announced an unknown caller.