“You’ll get used to each other,” she says. “And you never know. Someone might come along and fall in love with him.”

“While we’re on the subject of dogs, Lady Brock, is there anyone local who knows about medieval floor tiles? Lucy’s shown me the hounds from Waltham Priory. They’re in a sad state.”

“Oh yes, the hounds! I remember sun designs, and flowers as well, in the distant past. Don’t suppose you can see a glimpse of them now. No, I haven’t got a clue what to do about them. Though I’ll tell you if anything surfaces. My memory’s rather a muddy pond, you see. Now, the reason I rang—memory a case in point, actually. My scarf. I realize I must have left it in church after we did the flowers. Silly thing with a picture of a train on it, yes?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

I’m suddenly aware of my heart beating solidly in my chest.

“I went back for it but it was gone. Then I saw your note in the porch, so I applied, as you directed, to the vicarage but you were out.”

“I’m sorry to bring you out of your way. I thought it would be safer in the vicarage. In my old parish we had to keep our eyes peeled, you see. I’m no expert but it looks . . .” What do I need to say? “It looks quite special.”

“Heavens no, I got it from the jumble sale. I think it belonged to old Edith Phelps. She went into the nursing home and her family had to clear the house. She had heaps of ghastly jewelry, jet earrings and brooches and frightful mourning bracelets made of hair, absolutely unsalable now, but her son Mottram took it all to Waltham for valuing, to that crook Freddie Spall who diddled his own aunt out of all her savings, and do you know, Freddie gave Mottram Phelps fifty pounds . . . Where was I?”

“The scarf.”

“Oh, yes. It makes me think of those marvelous designs from the thirties. What was he called, that fellow. Hermès. I’d never have been able to afford that sort of thing at the time . . . Oh Lord, supposing it’s actually antique? Supposing the Phelpses put it in the jumble sale by mistake? It really ought to go back to Edith, if that’s the case.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s possible.”

“Well, let me pop round anyway and fetch it. I could show it to Edith one of these days, see what she thinks. I don’t want to snaffle up one of her beloved treasures for a few pence, it would be quite wrong.”

“Would the nursing home be Redwood House? The one on the edge of the village?”

“Indeed, Redwood.”