All my energy has gone to my mind, which is trying to shift an idea into play but the idea is a mighty great stone, almost immovable. I get out of the car. As I walk to Althea’s door I make a misstep or two. The ground seems farther away than it should. When I stagger, the idea rocks in my mind.

The sun’s gone down. A glow of lamps in the window, music from the gramophone.

Althea exclaims with surprise and pleasure, admits me. Margaret Dennis, who’s sitting by the electric fire, a chunky tumbler in her hand, gives a similar hail of welcome.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I say, and find I can get no further.

Althea pauses for a second and then says, “Parish business, is it? We’ll adjourn to the study. Margaret, my dear, excuse us for a moment.”

—

“My dear James. You look . . . what’s the expression? As if a harrow has run over your soul.”

“The scarf,” I manage to say. “The one you left in the church. It turns out it belonged to Bridie Moore. I need to give it back to her.”

“What, this instant?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She gives me a narrow, sidelong look, sniffs, and leaves the room.

An untidy desk, two paintings looking down at her. Sir Michael Brock in uniform, a hollowed face, a medaled, waterlogged chest. And Philip Moore’s painting of William. A fleck of scarlet at the corner of his eye makes the blue blaze. The majestic ruin of his hand, the nub of a missing finger and the truncated half palm, a silvered braid of scar tissue. Philip, I think distantly, is uncommonly good.

Lady Brock has returned. “Here it is. I’m glad we found the rightful owner. A few memories there, I don’t doubt.”

I hold it up against the lamp. I can hardly see them, they weave into the fabric like small clouds or spots on your retina as you gaze into blue sky.

“I know,” says Lady Brock. “Masses of little darns. Cigarettes, for certain. When I was young you couldn’t go to a party without your finery getting singed to absolute lace by the blasted smokers . . . James, you look quite odd.”

“I need to go to Redwood House.”

“For heaven’s sake, what’s the rush?” She’s following me down the hall. “Stay for a drink at least! James, honestly,” she cries, as I open her front door. “I hope to hear, eventually, what on earth you’re up to!”

—