‘They go to the obituaries first. Well, after a certain age one does, I suppose.’

‘Have you had any deaths recently?’ David suddenly asked. ‘I mean among resident members?’

Antonia frowned. ‘Several, yes.’

‘Your friend, the intellectual Major, no doubt suspects foul play? What was his name? My mother has an admirer,’ he told Bethany.

‘I have nothing of the sort.’ Antonia felt herself reddening.

‘Yes, you have. What was his name?’

‘I don’t know who you mean.’

‘Come on. I was there. I saw him making sheep’s eyes at you. He was chatting you up. All that rigmarole about murder mysteries resembling baroque opera was only a pretext to get your attention. He must know you’ve written a murder mystery.’

There was a pause. ‘He was right, actually,’ Antonia said. ‘Sex and power, jealousy and rage, despair, menace, violent death – you find them in baroque opera and in most murder mysteries. Especially violent death. That was clever of him.’

‘Death,’ Emma said. Amazingly she pronounced that one word perfectly.

‘What was his name? No, don’t tell me. Penderby. Major Horace Penderby.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s Payne. Hugh Payne.’ Antonia found herself looking at Emma. For some reason her heart had started beating fast.

‘Major Payne. Oh yes. You fancy him too, don’t you? Well, he was a presentable sort of chap. Better-looking than Dad. Not as ancient as the others. Can’t be more than fifty-three or four. They say that fifty is the new forty.’

‘If fifty is the new forty, then forty’s the new thirty – which means twenty is the new ten, right?’ Bethany said. ‘Which means that I am fourteen. You are married to a girl of fourteen and have fathered a daughter by her. You’ve broken the law.’

‘No, no, it doesn’t work that way at all… What is Major Payne? Divorced? Bachelor?’

‘Widower. His wife died last year.’