Now it was her turn to watch his face. He managed to keep it almost completely straight but just for a moment, just the tiniest moment, she saw something steal over it. A crafty expression. A tiny, tiny flash of recognition.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing,’ he said. ‘You mean ... the artist?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Not even by rumour?’

‘I don’t ... I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You’ve tried online?’

‘Yes, it’s not much help. It used to belong to my aunt. I’m trying to find it again.’

‘Are you?’ he said, in a strenuously unconcerned voice. He opened a polished wooden box on the desk and took out a beautiful embossed business card that announced his name – Philip Palliser, Dealer in Rare Books.

‘Well, if you find such a thing ... do bring it in here if you’d like it valued.’

‘Thank you,’ Mirren said. ‘Where would you start?’

He pulled in one side of his mouth. ‘That’s a tricky one. Wherever it was sold, I suspect. When was that?’

‘Just after the war.’

‘Goodness. A long time ago.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And where were they living?’

‘I’m not sure. They were in London but then moved up north somewhere? I’ll check.’

‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘I really wish you good luck. I know what it’s like to be desperate for a book and not be able to find it. This is why I feel the internet is overrated.’

Mirren smiled.

‘I mean, I don’t know if it’s even in a shop. It could be sitting in some old library somewhere.’

The man pushed on his glasses.

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘This kind of thing – if it exists, what you’re looking for – well. People would shout about it from the rooftops. As Beardsley got more and more famous ... it would be in a museum somewhere. We’d have heard of it.Iwould have heard of it.’

‘Oh,’ said Mirren, disheartened.

‘I suppose it’s not impossible it’s on a very old shelf somewhere, waiting for someone to pick it up. For me, I would suggest Hay-on-Wye. And do ... I mean, it’s highly unlikely ... but if you were to come across it, feel free to bring it in.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mirren. He seemed to have softened rather a lot. After all, it couldn’t be much fun having people ringing your doorbell all day. ‘Thanks, I will.’

‘Very nice to meet you, Miss ...’

‘Sutherland. Mirren Sutherland.’

‘What a pretty name.’

And he escorted her, politely, back out of the door into the blowy December evening.

Chapter 6

Philip Palliser strode through into the back room, calling for his nephew, the boy who sat in the outer office.