Archie Price, grandson of Laura who ran the historical society, cried when handed his recorder, and asked, ‘Can we play at Matilda’s funeral?’

Another child cried, remembering Matilda had never been good on the recorder and wanted an oboe for Christmas. ‘Miss, do you think she got one? Would it have burned too?’

How could I respond? It was outrageous, these babies planning a funeral! At recess, Jeannie took the kids outside to play. We’d take turns on yard duty to give each other a break from the high emotions of the day. I checked my phone and found a missed call from Genevieve.

As soon as she answered, she got down to business. ‘Douglas Anderson is interested in the case.’ She paused. She always had a friend to look after things. ‘You might like him. If you’re really determined not to win Stephen back.’

‘Genevieve.’ My mother’s judgement on lawyers at least was reliable. She’d known exactly what to do to get Caleb out of trouble after the car accident.

‘I’m just saying. I’ll email you his details.’

I’d also received another email from Marco. I read it while waiting for Genevieve’s information. He attached photographs of art that had survived for centuries between the destruction of Nero’s Domus Aurea and its rediscovery during the Renaissance. The paint had faded. Now the signatures of explorers who had broken in to see it for themselves were more visible than the paintings. But those signatures were interesting in their own right. Michelangelo and Raphael, I read. Also Casanova, de Sade. And Marco had discovered a string of names, not yet public, of famous Europeans who had left their mark on ancient walls in ways we would now consider vandalism. After university, Marco had joined a team uncovering frescoes of an ancient Roman dinner party, previously hidden by a block of flats being replaced by a multi-storey car park. Diners reclined in tiles while slaves fanned them with giant leaves and fed them grapes whose vivid freshness had withstood millennia. Marco had become a celebrity among his peers. Success was like a cocaine hit. He’d be digging, chasing a repeat of that early triumph, for the rest of his life. Skype when you have the time, Marco signed off.

Genevieve was taking a while. I had time now. Marco! ‘How’s your article going?’ I asked.

‘I’ve made progress. More on digging than writing. But I’ve got some funny parallels between Rome and modern times. Nero’s celebrity wife apparently developed her own brand of perfume.’

‘His second wife,’ I reminded him. ‘Poppeae. Poppy. The Roman Kim Kardashian.’

Marco laughed. ‘A good observation. Thanks. I’ll use that too.’

‘Too?’

‘As well as what you said about Tacitus. Until you, I always associated him with every other boring historian.’

‘Historians aren’t boring,’ I said, pretending to take offence.