‘And what might you be doing in this part of the world? For you don’t look as if you belonged here.’

It was an opening, but he turned away from it, judging that if she knew he had come in search of his letters, she would withhold them. His memory, a well-trained servant, proffered him a name he had seen on a signpost, and he replied, ‘Primarily, I’m here because there is a bull I want to look at. When I discovered that Spixworth is only a few miles short of your house, I ventured to come on.’

‘A bull? I shouldn’t have thought Tom Drury had a bull worth looking at, unless he’s bought one to palm off. What sort of bull?’

‘I can’t tell you, for I haven’t seen it. I came here first. When I read your letter in The Times, it occurred to me that I might be of some small service to you about this life of Mary. As I told you, I knew her in London, and I also knew many of her friends. I might be able to elucidate passages in the letters, allusions to other writers and so forth. It’s 55important to get these details right. Literary people are absurdly touchy, and our laws about libel are so inviting to anyone with a grievance that you might find yourself with half a dozen law-suits on your hands. I expect your publisher has explained to you about paying damages, and your liability.’

She was hooked, for her hand went towards a large carton near-by; but lightly hooked, for she converted the gesture into taking up the poker and giving the fire several angry prods.

‘I gathered that you have a good deal of material already—letters written to your niece by various celebrities,’ he said.

‘More than enough, if you ask me.’

‘Indeed? The mere deciphering of them must be quite an undertaking. Mary used to scold me about my handwriting, but really I wasn’t the worst.’

‘So you were one of them, were you?’

‘Yes, I was one of them.’ He spoke almost gaily, feeling now almost gay. Before she could answer, he went on, taking pains to be looking neither at her face nor at the carton, ‘If by any chance she kept letters from me—of course, I don’t think it at all likely, I was not in the least a celebrity—I would dearly like to read them over.’ This was a moment to say something about Auld Lang Syne, but he really could not ask that of himself, so he insinuated it into a sigh.

‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘What would they be signed?’56

Staring at a frightful water-colour, he mastered his reluctance.

‘Stiggins.’ The east wind seemed to flout him with its hoo-hooing.

‘What did you say?’

‘Stiggins,’ he repeated, this time firmly.

‘I thought you said your name was some sort of fish.’

‘My name is Mackrell—Charlton Mackrell. But Mary called me Stiggins. It was a fashion to use nicknames then.’