doubtless gone wrong. What do I know? I’m not sure I have the spirit let alone the imagination to rise to this. And what gets me most is that someone out there thinks so too. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’

‘Then,’ she leaned forward and I could smell her powdery sandalwood talc skin, ‘Then - prove - them – wrong! Darjeeling talks, you know. It’s full of tattle. You will hear many stories; you will not be short of material. Tell the story that most suits you, always mindful of the fact that whatever the truth of the situation, that truth itself is a perverse slippery creature, and looks very different from whichever angle it’s studied.’

‘Say anything in fact…’

‘Absolutely not – not anything, say what your heart feels, what your heart hears…’ She paused purposefully. I held my breath. I knew I was supposed to be in charge here of the interview but she was going at her own pace, lolling my characters round her mouth. She breathed out then continued. ‘Have you considered the man they call ‘Bit’?’

‘I’ve barely had time,’ I replied ambiguously.

‘I was even very fond of Bit, though he was often harsh with his staff and had an odd reputation. You know he had a limp – a bad limp?’

‘No.’

‘A man with a limp is not like a man with a scar. People don’t trust limps. They can’t place them. Was it polio or did he get shot by the enemy whilst running away?’ She smiled. ‘You know he was a commander in the first war? Middle Eastern Front. I have always thought he was probably more interesting than Dutch – pure psychology we are talking about now.’

‘They didn’t like each other?’

‘They were very different. You know everyone said Dutch was a player? You know, he played – played women. Played with them, like a cat. Bit wasn’t like that. He was a great romantic, a sad one.’

‘He doesn’t strike me as sad from the file. He seems remarkably chipper. Bit of the joker in the pack.’