There is a silence. I look at Ben’s face and see that it is stony.

“Who is Sir Hugh?” I ask.

“No one worth talking about,” Ben mutters, and with that he turns and strides towards the doors.

I look at Klaus for answers, but he is not giving anything away. We follow him inside. When we reach the entrance to the drawing room I go in, but Ben and Klaus remain behind me in the doorway.

The drawing room looks like a carefully arranged scene from a painting. Everyone is gathered there, drinking tea, though the heat in the room is stifling. I stand silently for a second, taking it all in.

Hero sits on a sofa beside Uncle Leo. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap and she looks bored. Her hair is tidy, her dress perfectly pressed; she looks, I realize, like a demure young lady. Next to them is Filomena, a frozen smile on her face. Ursula stands by the window, her back to the rest of them, a cigarette held in one hand. Her posture is rigid, frozen.

In the chair nearest the enormous fireplace is a woman who looks to be in her late forties. She is expensively dressed in black; a collar of glossy black feathers trims her dress, a necklace of enormous pearls circles her throat, luminous as tiny moons against her skin. Her pale hair is swept away from her aristocratic face and her make-up is subtle. She looks very relaxed and is mid-sentence.

“And, of course, I told them that such behaviour was simply unacceptable,” she says, picking up a dainty teacup and taking a delicate sip. “My husband was the ambassador, after all, and I think I would know better than them what the fascist position would be.”

“Hello,” I say, taking another step forward.

“Bea!” Filomena stands and reaches out a hand to me. I think I see relief flicker in her eyes.

“There you are, Bea.” Leo also gets to his feet. “Where have you been?”

“With Ben,” I say simply, accepting a perfunctory kiss on my cheek.

“Just the two of you?” Leo’s glance darts towards the woman by the fireplace.

“Well, yes.” I am surprised. “He’s been giving me art lessons, remember?” I add.

“Of course.” My uncle’s face clears. “Good to make the most of having these artist types about.” His tone is jolly, but the words feel wrong somehow. I slant a look at Filomena, who is sitting again, with a frozen smile on her lips.

“Now, Beatrice,” Leo says, “I’ve been very rude – may I present Lady Frances Bowling?”

I move obediently forward to shake the woman’s cold, smooth hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

Her mouth lifts in an approximation of a smile. “I know your mother, of course.”

“Do you?” I ask. I’ve never heard her mentioned before.