Then, as now, it was situated comfortably back from a quiet lane and surrounded by several acres of land rented out to local farmers. This much, and clear directions, Anselm learned from a village newsagent, having got lost on his way to tea at four. The main entrance was beneath a portico supported by two Greek columns. A fire crackled in the hall. ‘For chatting and leaning upon,’ said Sarah, stroking a velvet padded rail that framed the hearth. ‘They’re from the officers’ mess of the Cambridgeshires. They became redundant after the MoD obliterated four hundred years of tradition by amalgamating three regiments with nothing in common save an acknowledgement that you can’t reduce an army’s size and increase its responsibilities at one and the same time.’ Sarah was in her early thirties, thought Anselm. Despite the pastoral calm of her surroundings, she had a windswept look. Her hair was unruly thick with early strands of grey held aside by a single wooden clip. When she spoke her face barely moved.
