As the crowd thinned, a young man came up to me. I had noticed him at the gravesite. He had been wearing a Burberry raincoat, his face hidden under a big black umbrella. Now he was wearing a well-cut black suit. “Miss Langley?” He had red hair and freckles on his nose and looked absurdly young. “I’m Nigel Barton. You know, Barton and Holcroft, your family solicitors?”

“Oh, Mr. Barton.” I shook the hand he held out. “How do you do? I’m pleased to meet you. I was wondering whom I should contact about the formal side of things and whether my father left any sort of will.”

“We do not possess a will, Miss Langley. Have you been through his papers?”

“I did glance through his desk, but then I felt uncomfortable about going through things when I wasn’t sure I had a right to.”

“You are his daughter.” He smiled at me. “I think that gives you every right. Perhaps you would care to come to the office in Godalming tomorrow and we can see how I might be of help to you?” He handed me his card.

“You look awfully young to be a partner in a law firm,” I said, before realising that this wasn’t very tactful.

He laughed. “Not a partner yet, I regret to say. The Barton in the firm’s name was my great-grandfather. We’ve been your family lawyers for a couple of hundred years. I’ve only been qualified for a couple of years, and I’m very much the junior of juniors.”

“I am supposed to take my own bar exam this year,” I said.

“Of course. I heard that you were reading law. We’ll have lots to talk about. Maybe I can take you to lunch tomorrow? The Boar’s Head down the street from our offices serves a pretty good meal.”

I hesitated. A man inviting me out to lunch? I wasn’t sure I was ready for that. “I’m sure that’s not necessary, nor is it part of the usual service,” I said, and saw his face fall.

“It’s not, but it’s a really good excuse for me to have a slap-up meal instead of the usual sandwich,” he said. He gave me a hopeful smile.

Why not? a voice was whispering in my head. He looks harmless enough. It’s not as if he’s inviting you to a nightclub. Not a date. Strictly business.

I managed my own smile. “Thank you, Mr. Barton. It’s very kind of you.”

He beamed as if I’d given him a present. “I won’t keep you now, then. I’m sure all these people are waiting to talk to you. Around eleven thirty tomorrow, shall we say?”

Billy Overton and Dr. Freeman both offered to drive me home, but Miss Honeywell appeared out of nowhere and I rode home with her.

“It was a very satisfactory funeral,” she said as we left the village street and turned into the leafy lane. “You must feel comforted by how many people came and by the reverence in which they hold the Langleys.”

“Touched and surprised,” I said. “I only wish my father had been alive to hear all the nice things they said.”

“I’m sorry I was a little late,” she said. “A last-minute phone call with parents who are in the Middle East. I had to reassure them their daughter would be kept safe from gardeners and grooms.”

I chuckled. “And did you reassure her?”

“I’m not sure. These foreign girls grow up so sheltered that they hurl themselves at any man.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “You’ll be going back to London, I take it?”

“Not for a few days,” I said. “You asked me to clear out the lodge, and I haven’t yet found a will, so I don’t feel comfortable disposing of my father’s belongings.”

“I don’t think he left very much, did he?” she said. “I know he kept a few good pieces of furniture from the Hall, but apart from that . . . Oh, and I believe there are still a couple of trunks of personal items that he asked if he could store in the attic. You should take a look at them when you have time. Mainly things like old trophies and photograph albums, I think. And some family portraits. You may want to keep some of them.”

“Thank you, yes, I’d like to look through them.”

“Come over whenever you like. The front door is open during the day.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea how one gets to the attic,” I said.

She laughed. “Of course. I always think that you once lived at Langley Hall.”

“I was born in the lodge,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll have one of the gardeners bring your father’s things over next time I see them.”

We had reached the gates to the school. She stopped the car to drop me off at the lodge. “Your employer doesn’t mind your taking this time off?” she asked.

“They have been most understanding,” I said, not wanting to touch on the truth. I thanked her and let myself in. Again I was struck by the feeling of cold and damp, almost as if the lodge itself was echoing my father’s sadness and despair. I told myself that I should make an inventory of everything, but felt suddenly drained after the funeral. I realised I hadn’t eaten any of those cucumber sandwiches or sausage rolls or little cakes, and wished now that I had packed some up to eat later. I made myself a cup of tea and a slice of toast, then I decided to call Scarlet. Scarlet was my former college roommate. I was currently occupying the sofa in her flat, having had to move out of my last digs in a hurry. She was completely different from me: for one thing she was a cockney whose father ran a pub. Her name wasn’t really Scarlet, either—it was Beryl, which she hated. She felt that Scarlet suited her personality much better. She had embraced everything that the seventies stood for: she wore long tie-dyed skirts, her unruly hair half covered her face, she smoked pot, and she went on protest marches against war and for women’s rights. I had always been the good one, the studious one, focused on my degree, not on ending the war in Vietnam. But surprisingly we got on really well. She was kind and easy-going, and she had welcomed me instantly when I’d had nowhere to go. She now worked in the theatre, assistant stage manager at the Royal Court, known for its avant-garde plays.