As Robin braked, an overweight black Labrador and a rough-coated terrier came shooting out of the front door, both barking. The Labrador seemed keen to make friends but the Norfolk terrier, which had a face like a malevolent monkey, barked and growled until a fair-haired man, dressed in stripy shirt and mustard-colored corduroy trousers, appeared at the doorway and bellowed:

“SHUT UP, RATTENBURY!”

Cowed, the dog subsided into low growls, all directed at Strike.

“Torquil D’Amery,” drawled the fair-haired man, approaching Strike with his hand outstretched. There were deep pockets beneath his pale blue eyes and his shiny pink face looked as though it never needed a razor. “Ignore the dog, he’s a bloody menace.”

“Cormoran Strike. This is—”

Robin had just held out her hand when Kinvara erupted out of the house, wearing old jodhpurs and a washed-out T-shirt, her loose red hair falling everywhere.

“For God’s sake… don’t you know anything about horses?” she shrieked at Strike and Robin. “Why did you come up the drive so fast?”

“You should wear a hard hat if you’re going in there, Kinvara!” Torquil called at her retreating figure, but she stormed away giving no sign that she had heard him. “Not your fault,” he assured Strike and Robin, rolling his eyes. “Got to take the drive at speed or you’ll get stuck in one of the bloody holes, ha ha. Come on in—ah, here’s Izzy.”

Izzy emerged from the house, wearing a navy shirtdress, the sapphire cross still around her neck. To Robin’s slight surprise, she embraced Strike as though he was an old friend come to offer condolences.

“Hi, Izzy,” he said, taking half a step backwards to extricate himself from the embrace. “You know Robin, obviously.”

“Oh, yah, got to get used to calling you ‘Robin’ now,” said Izzy, smiling and kissing Robin on both cheeks. “Sorry if I slip up and call you Venetia—I’m bound to, that’s how I still think of you.

“Did you hear about the Winns?” she asked, in almost the same breath.

They nodded.

“Horrible, horrible little man,” said Izzy. “I’m delighted Della’s given him the push.

“Anyway, come along in… where’s Kinvara?” she asked her brother-in-law as she led them into the house, which seemed gloomy after the brightness outside.

“Bloody horses are upset again,” said Torquil, over the renewed barking of the Norfolk terrier. “No, fuck off, Rattenbury, you’re staying outside.”

He banged the front door closed on the terrier, which began to whine and scratch at it instead. The Labrador padded quietly in Izzy’s wake as she led them through a dingy hallway with wide stone stairs, into a drawing room on the right.

Long windows faced out over the croquet lawn and the woods. As they entered, three white-blond children raced through the overgrown grass outside with raucous cries, then passed out of sight. There was nothing of modernity about them. In their dress and their hairstyles they might have walked straight out of the 1940s.

“They’re Torquil and Fizzy’s,” said Izzy fondly.

“Guilty as charged,” said Torquil, proudly. “M’wife’s upstairs, I’ll go and get her.”

As Robin turned away from the window she caught a whiff of a strong, heady scent that gave her an unaccountable feeling of tension until she spotted the vase of stargazer lilies standing on a table behind a sofa. They matched the faded curtains, once scarlet and now a washed-out pale rose, and the frayed fabric on the walls, where two patches of darker crimson showed that pictures had been removed. Everything was threadbare and worn. Over the mantelpiece hung one of the few remaining paintings, which showed a stabled horse with a splashy brown and white coat, its nose touching a starkly white foal curled in the straw.

Beneath this painting, and standing so quietly that they had not immediately noticed him, was Raphael. With his back to the empty grate, hands in the pockets of his jeans, he appeared more Italian than ever in this very English room, with its faded tapestry cushions, its gardening books piled in a heap on a small table and its chipped Chinoiserie lamps.

“Hi, Raff,” said Robin.

“Hello, Robin,” he said, unsmiling.

“This is Cormoran Strike, Raff,” said Izzy. Raphael didn’t move, so Strike walked over to him to shake hands, which Raphael did reluctantly, returning his hand to his jeans immediately afterwards.

“Yah, so, Fizz and I were just talking about Winn,” said Izzy, who seemed greatly preoccupied with the news of the Winns’ split. “We just hope to God he’s going to keep his mouth shut, because now Papa’s gorn, he can say whatever he likes about him and get away with it, can’t he?”

“You’ve got the goods on Winn, if he tries,” Strike reminded her.

She cast him a look of glowing gratitude.

“You’re right, of course, and we wouldn’t have that if it weren’t for you… and Venetia—Robin, I mean,” she added, as an afterthought.

“Torks, I’m downstairs!” bellowed a woman from just outside the room, and a woman who was unmistakably Izzy’s sister backed into the room carrying a laden tray. She was older, heavily freckled and weather-beaten, her blonde hair streaked with silver, and she wore a striped shirt very like her husband’s, though she had twinned hers with pearls. “TORKS!” she bellowed at the ceiling, making Robin jump. “I’M DOWN HERE!”

She set the tray with a clatter on the needlepoint ottoman that stood in front of Raff and the fireplace.

“Hi, I’m Fizzy. Where’s Kinvara gorn?”

“Faffing around with the horses,” said Izzy, edging around the sofa and sitting down. “Excuse not to be here, I expect. Grab a pew, you two.”

Strike and Robin took two sagging armchairs that stood side by side, at right angles to the sofa. The springs beneath them seemed to have worn out decades ago. Robin felt Raphael’s eyes on her.

“Izz tells me you know Charlie Campbell,” Fizzy said to Strike, pouring everybody tea.

“That’s right,” said Strike.

“Lucky man,” said Torquil, who had just re-entered the room.

Strike gave no sign he had heard this.

“Did you ever meet Jonty Peters?” Fizzy continued. “Friend of the Campbells? He had something to do with the police… no, Badger, these aren’t for you… Torks, what did Jonty Peters do?”

“Magistrate,” said Torquil promptly.

“Yah, of course,” said Fizzy, “magistrate. Did you ever meet Jonty, Cormoran?”

“No,” said Strike, “afraid not.”

“He was married to what’s-her-name, lovely gel, Annabel. Did masses for Save the Children, got her CBE last year, so well-deserved. Oh, but if you knew the Campbells, you must have met Rory Moncrieff?”

“Don’t think so,” said Strike patiently, wondering what Fizzy would have said if he’d told her that the Campbells had kept him as far from their friends and family as was possible. Perhaps she was equal even to that: oh, but then, you must have run across Basil Plumley? They loathed him, yah, violent alcoholic, but his wife did climb Kilimanjaro for Dogs Trust…