The lady lived in a large gloomy house in one of London’s higher class squares. Inside it smelt of sealing wax, bird seed and slightly decayed flowers. Lady Caterham was a large woman⁠—large in every way. Her proportions were majestic, rather than ample. She had a large beaked nose, wore gold-rimmed pince-nez and her upper lip bore just the faintest suspicion of a moustache.

She was somewhat surprised to see her niece, but accorded her a frigid cheek, which Bundle duly kissed.

“This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Eileen,” she observed coldly.

“We’ve only just got back, Aunt Marcia.”

“I know. How is your father? Much as usual?”

Her tone conveyed disparagement. She had a poor opinion of Alastair Edward Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham. She would have called him, had she known the term, a “poor fish.”

“Father is very well. He’s down at Chimneys.”