‘Does she live in Sydney? Do you see her?’

‘Yes to your first question, no to your second. We had a falling-out. I dislike her second husband and her children. Always have. The rift between us has grown.’ She looked at a point above and behind my head. ‘My husband was a great man, Mr Hardy, a great man. He had the greatest legal mind in this country in this century, but no son, no way to build a legal firm of distinction. I am editing his memoirs, they’ll show the world his quality.’

She was talking to herself and there was nothing for me to say. Still I felt there was a connection between all this and the information she had to give me. I was sure of one thing — she blamed herself for not giving the great man a son. The memoirs would be a belated child.

‘I share Sir Clive’s tragedy, the absence of an heir.’

‘I thought you said your daughter had children.’

‘They are not suitable,’ she flared. ‘I have disinherited them. Bettina, too, although she doesn’t know it. I am pinning all my hopes on you, Mr Hardy. You see, I have learned of a grandson.’

I struggled not to leer. The armour was cracking like sandy cement.

‘Sir Clive had an illegitimate child?’

‘Certainly not!’ she spat. ‘He was the most moral of men, the most scrupulous. No, Henry Brain and Bettina had a son, he must be thirty now.’

‘How did you discover this?’

‘Henry Brain told me. He wanted money from my husband. He came here. I hadn’t seen him for a great many years and I scarcely recognised him. He was a wreck, a ruin from drink. He looked as old as

…’ She stopped herself. ‘How he got to the house and inside I don’t know. He forced his way in here, almost knocked Verna down. He broke in on me, here.’ She waved her hand around indignantly.

‘What did he say exactly?’

‘He raved. He was frightfully drunk. My husband was away in Canberra. When I refused to give him money Henry became abusive. He taunted me by telling me about my grandson whom I’ve never known.’