“You may have known him under the name of… Charlesworth? Or Hamilton-Dukes? A long time ago. The First World War.”

“But my dear man—I’m sorry, not my dear man… oh dear—” she broke off rather charmingly. I saw a lifetime of dropped bricks behind her; but her tanned skin and her clear bluish eyes, and the body that had conspicuously not run to seed, made her forgivable. She said, “What is your name?”

I told her.

“Mr. Urfe, do you know how old I was in 1914?”

“Obviously very young indeed.” She smiled, but as if compliments were rather continental and embarrassing.

“I was ten.” She looked to where her son was filling the bucket. “Benjie’s age.”

“Those other names—they mean nothing?”

“Good Lord yes, but… this Maurice—what did you call him?—he stayed with them?”

I shook my head. Once again Conchis had tricked me into a ridiculous situation. He had probably picked the name with a pin in an old directory: all he would have had to find was the name of one of the daughters. I plunged insecurely on.

“He was the son. An only son. Very musical.”

“Well, I’m afraid there must be a mistake. The Charlesworths were childless, and there was a Hamilton-Dukes boy but—” I saw her hesitate as something snagged her memory—"he died in the war.”

I smiled. “I think you’ve just remembered something else.”

“No—I mean, yes. I don’t know. It was when you said musical.” She looked incredulous. “You couldn’t mean Mr. Rat?” She laughed, and put her thumbs in the pockets of her jodhpurs. “The Wind in the Willows. He was an Italian who came and tried to teach us the piano. My sister and me.”

“Young?”

She shrugged. “Quite.”

“Could you tell me more about him?”

She looked down. “Gambellino, Gambardello… something like that. Gambardello?” She said the name as if it was still a joke.

“His first name?”

She couldn’t possibly remember.

“Why Mr. Rat?”

“Because he had such staring brown eyes. We used to tease him terribly.” She pulled an ashamed face at her son, who had come back, and now pushed her, as if he was the one being teased. She missed the sudden leap of excitement in my own eyes; the certainty that Conchis had used more than a pin.

“Was he shortish? Shorter than me?”

She clasped her headscarf, trying to remember; then looking up, puzzled. “Do you know… but this can’t be… ?”

“Would you be very kind indeed and let me question you for ten minutes or so?”

She hesitated. I was politely adamant; just ten minutes. She turned to her son. “Benjie, run and ask Gunnel to make us some coffee. And bring it out in the garden.”

He looked at the stable. “But Lazy.”

“We’ll do for Lazy in a minute.”

Benjie ran up the gravel and I followed Mrs. de Seitas, as she peeled off her gloves, flicked off her headscarf, a willowy walk, down beside a brick wall and through a doorway into a fine old garden; a lake of autumn flowers; on the far side of the house a lawn and a cedar. She led the way round to a sun loggia. There was a canopied swing-seat, some elegant cast-iron seats painted white. Money; I guessed that Sir Charles Penn had had a golden scalpel. She sat in the swing-seat and indicated a chair for me. I murmured something about the garden.

“It is rather jolly, isn’t it? My husband does almost all this by himself and now, poor man, he hardly ever sees it.” She smiled. “My husband’s an economist. He’s stuck in Strasbourg.” She swung her feet up; she was a little too girlish, too aware of her good figure; reacting from a rural boredom. “But come on. Tell me about your famous writer I’ve never heard of. You’ve met him?”

“He died in the Occupation.”

“Poor man. What of?”

“Cancer.” I hurried on. “He was, well, very secretive about his past, so one has to deduce things from his work. We know that he was Greek, but he may have pretended to be Italian.” I jumped up and gave her a light for her cigarette.

“I just can’t believe it was Mr. Rat. He was such a funny little man.”

“Can you remember one thing—his playing the harpsichord as well as the piano?”

“The harpsichord is the plonkety-plonk one?” I nodded, but she shook her head. “You did say a writer?”

“He turned from music to literature. You see, there are countless references in his early poems—and in, well, a novel he wrote—to an unhappy but very significant love affaire he had when he was still in England. Of course we just don’t know to what extent he was recalling reality and to what extent embroidering on it.”

“But—am I mentioned?”

“There are all sorts of clues that suggest the girl’s name was a flower name. And that he lived near her. And that the common bond was music…”

She sat up, fascinated.

“How on earth did you trace this to us?”

“Oh—various clues. From literary references. I knew it was very near Lord’s cricket ground. In one… passage he talks of this girl with her ancient British family name. Oh, and her famous doctor father. Then I started looking at street directories.”

“How absolutely extraordinary.”

“It’s just one of those things. You meet hundreds of dead ends. But one day you really hit a way through.”

Smiling, she glanced towards the house. “Here’s Gunnel.” For two or three minutes we had to go through the business of getting coffee poured; polite exchanges about Norway—Gunnel had never been further north than Trondheim, I discovered. Benjie was ordered to disappear; and the ur-Lily and I were left alone again.

For effect, I produced a notebook.

“If I could just ask you a few questions…”

“I say—glory at last.” She laughed rather stupidly; horsily; she was enjoying herself.

“I believed he lived next to you. He didn’t. Where did he live?”

“Oh I haven’t the faintest idea. You know. At that age.”

“You knew nothing about his parents?” She shook her head. “Would your sisters perhaps know more?”

Her face gravened.

“My eldest sister lives in Chile. She was ten years older than me. And my sister Rose—”

“Rose!”

She smiled. “Rose.”

“God, this is extraordinary. It clinches it. There’s a sort of… well a sort of mystery poem that belongs to the group about you. It’s very obscure, but now we know you have a sister called Rose…”

“Had a sister. Rose died just about that time. In 1916.”

“Of typhoid?”

I said it so eagerly that she was taken aback; then smiled. “No. Of some terribly rare complication following jaundice.” She stared out over the garden for a moment. “It was the great tragedy of my childhood.”

“Did you feel that he had any special affection for you—or for your sisters?”

She smiled again, remembering. “We always thought he secretly admired May—my eldest sister—she was engaged, of course, but she used to come and sit with us. And yes… oh goodness, it’s strange, it does come back, I remember he always used to show off, what we called showing off, if she was in the room. Play frightfully difficult bits. And she was fond of that Beethoven thing—For Elise? We used to hum it when we wanted to annoy him.”

“Your sister Rose was older than you?”

“Two years older.”

“So the picture is really of two little girls teasing a foreign music teacher?”

She began to swing on the seat. “Do you know, it’s frightful, but I can’t remember. I mean, yes, we teased him, I’m jolly sure we were perfect little pests. But then the war started and he disappeared.”

“Where?”

“Oh. I couldn’t tell you. No idea. But I remember we had a dreadful old hattie-axe in his place. And we hated her. I’m sure we missed him. I suppose we were frightful little snobs. One was in those days.”

“How long did he teach you?”

“Two years?” She was almost asking me.

“Can you remember any sign at all of strong personal liking—for you—on his side?”

She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. “You don’t mean… something nasty?”