The maid returned to take out the plates. Mrs. Alforde smiled up at her and asked how her sister and nephew were.

“They’re doing quite well, thank you, ma’am. And how’s the Colonel keeping?”

“As well as can be expected, thank you, Rebecca. I know he would have liked to have come today, but he’s not in the best of health.”

In the lull between courses, Lydia excused herself and left the room. She went to the lavatory that opened off the hall. She wanted time to think. There were too many apparent coincidences. There had to be an underlying pattern. Her father had inherited Morthams Farm from old Mrs. Alforde. He had sold it to Serridge, who had used Miss Penhow’s money to buy it and had moved in with her. Miss Penhow had gone. Her father had gone away too, but now he was living at Bleeding Heart Square, in the house apparently owned by Mr. Serridge but which had formerly belonged to Miss Penhow.

But there was another layer of connections that added further complications. Her own parents had met at Rawling Hall, and she herself had presumably been conceived there. And now here she was, nearly thirty years later, brought here by the current Mrs. Alforde, who had originally approached her at the instigation of Lydia’s mother.

She flushed the lavatory, washed her hands and went back to the hall, where she met Rebecca bringing in the pudding. In the dining room the Vicar was mourning the good old days.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Alforde said, breaking into a lament for Christmas Past. “The Hall was impossible in the winter. There is a great deal to be said for central heating.”

Mr. Gladwyn shook his head slowly. “The old order changeth, yielding place to new.”

“Dear Lord Tennyson,” said Mrs. Alforde tartly. “Not a man with much sense of humor and not an optimist either. By the way, talking of people without much sense of humor, what are we going to do about Margaret Narton?”

There was a low rumbling from Mr. Gladwyn which Lydia at first took for flatulence but a moment later realized was laughter. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“From what you say, her only source of income must be her wages from those dreadful people up at the Hall-all high thinking and low living, I understand, and not very good at paying their bills.”

Gladwyn grunted. “She’s not in the best state of health, either.”

“She’s not old. She can’t be much more than forty-five. Such a shame: she was rather attractive when she was younger.”

“She’s very devout.” Mr. Gladwyn frowned. “Almost worryingly so.”

“Dear me,” Mrs. Alforde said. “Anyway, I shall make enquiries. Gerry feels very strongly about not abandoning former servants in their hour of need. What I should really like is to find a more suitable position for her, and possibly lighter work too. Tell me, is Mr. Gregory still the caretaker of the village school?”

“Yes, yes he is.”

“He must be nearing eighty by now. Perhaps retirement is indicated. Gerry is chairman of the trustees, as you know, and with your support it should be quite straightforward.”

“We’ve never had a woman as the caretaker of the village school.”

“The old order changes, Vicar. No reason why we shouldn’t. Old Gregory does nothing more arduous than lock up and occasionally sweep the leaves. And Mrs. Narton would be able to help with the indoor cleaning too, which is something Gregory would never dream of doing.”

“It’s certainly an idea,” conceded Mr. Gladwyn. “If you think she’d be up to it.”

Mrs. Alforde turned to Lydia. “If you don’t mind, I shall go and see Mrs. Narton after coffee. What would you like to do?”

“I might go for a walk,” Lydia said. “Look, the sun’s come out. It’s an omen.”

“I’m not sure Mr. Gladwyn approves of omens,” Mrs. Alforde said.

The sun was still shining when Lydia and Mrs. Alforde left the Vicarage. They parted at the gate, Mrs. Alforde turning right toward the Nartons’ cottage, and Lydia turning left, which took her past the pub and the church.

Walking on, she caught sight of the Hall on the low ridge that raised it above the farmland and village. The park looked unkempt and one of the lodge gates had parted company with its hinges and was lying on its side in the ditch. She turned and retraced her steps through the village. She had felt a certain delicacy about mentioning to Mrs. Alforde where she really wanted to go.

The roof of a small barn appeared in the distance, on the far side of a field. She glanced up and down the lane. No one was in sight. She went through the field gate and followed the line of the boundary hedge.

The barn was exactly as Rory had described, with the boarded windows, the heavily guarded double doors at the front, and the single door standing ajar at the back. Once she was inside, her enthusiasm for what she was doing abruptly dwindled. A girl and her baby had died in this place, alone and probably in pain. She told herself not to be foolish and lit a cigarette to drive away the ghosts. Then she stripped off her gloves, stood on tiptoe and felt along the top of the wall until her hand touched something smooth and hard. She wrapped her fingers around it and lifted it down. It was the skull of a lamb, an exhibit in Robbie Proctor’s private Golgotha, his personal ossuary. She put the skull back and continued to run her hand along the wall, palpating with her fingertips, feeling the outlines of skulls small and large.

At the end of the ledge, tucked in the corner where it ran into the gable wall, she came to another shape and a different texture-something which had rectangular corners, and which felt both warmer and smoother to the touch than the skulls had done. She ran her fingers over and around it. A small box. She lifted it down and discovered that it was very light and that something shifted inside when she moved it. The box was gray with dust and old cobwebs. She brushed away the worst of the dirt with a handful of straw. It had once held cigars and there was still a label attached to it.

Lydia took the box to the window opening in the nearest gable wall and held it in the light that streamed between two of the planks. She turned it upside down, and something rattled inside. She read the label and the stamp on the bottom. The box had once contained Jamaican cigars from Temple Hall, which proudly proclaimed itself “the original Cuban settlement.” According to another label on the side, the cigars had been bought at the Army and Navy Stores. She flicked up the lid and parted the leaves of the paper lining inside. The interior was empty apart from a broken pencil about three inches long.

She frowned at it, a sense of anticlimax washing over her. For an instant she had thought there would be something inside that would miraculously resolve the whole messy business: something she could show to Rory with the words, “There-I’ve done it.”

A broken pencil?

Lifting the box, its lid still open, she sniffed it. Faint but unmistakable, the aroma of ghostly cigars touched her sense of smell, unlocking a tangled mass of memories: of Fin after dinner in the library at Monkshill; of Marcus at their wedding breakfast, swooping down to kiss her, his moustache as bristly as a toothbrush; and of other cigars in other places at other times, down the long and misty perspectives of childhood.

At that moment the small door behind her slammed into its frame and she heard a scraping and thumping on the other side of it. She dropped the cigar box, ran to the door and tried to push it open. It didn’t move.