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'You'll see, you will thrive in your new place,' he said, doubting that could be the truth. She had often expressed the wish to die in her house alone rather than be surrounded by strangers.

'We know how to adapt,' she went on. 'It's just my legs, you see. My knees, ankles, hips—well, the whole works. Arthritis. I can't do the stairs anymore. I've taken over the dining room as a bedroom, but the parlour is still suitable for visitors. Come along.'

Entering the living room, he thought its suitability was an optimistic evaluation. The chaos of moving was clearly under way. Boxes had been unflattened and taped into squares and some books had been removed from their shelves, but that seemed to be the extent of the progress. What looked to be dozens of framed photographs and ornaments still needed to be sorted and packed.

He should have arranged to stay overnight; he would have to come back another time before she was finally moved out.

'Well, it looks like we have our work cut out for us,' he said.

'It's not as bad as it looks,' she said. 'The men are coming tomorrow, and they'll deal with it.'

'Tomorrow? You said next week.'

'They changed the schedule on me. Well, not them, but the care home said they had a sudden opening. I think we know what that means: someone died, probably playing croquet or following an altercation over the Scrabble board—so they had an opening, and rather than inconvenience them, could I move in sooner? I said yes. I didn't want to lose my place in the queue. It was hard enough to get a spot at Elderwood.'

'I see,' he said.

As he turned his attention to the books, she apologized for her slow progress, but one look at her hands told the story. The arthritis was pronounced. What had been a slight swelling of her thumbs had become a claw-like deformity of all her digits. If her feet were in the same condition, it explained her hobbling walk. She'd be in a wheelchair soon. Once again, he was awash with guilt. How had she been coping on her own for so long?

'Have you been able to get any help from the villagers?' he asked hopefully. 'From your friends at the church?'

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Those boxes got assembled by Gracie from the choir, and the rest of them have been good about bringing meals and helping me with basic chores. Ralph from the post office, when we had a post office, offered to stop by and tend to the garden, but he hasn't got round to it yet. He's not well himself. The entire village is fading away, you know. The young people—there's nothing for them here. They all take off for London or Cambridge or Milton Keynes, quick as they can, although what anyone finds to do in Milton Keynes I cannot imagine. None of them seem to want to come back when it's time to start a family. Who can blame them?' 

'There's paper to wrap the few knickknacks I want to take with me.' She pointed one gnarly finger at a box of brown paper beneath a shelf holding the usual ceramic sheperdesses—sheperdi?—and flowers and animals. 'Oh, and before I forget, what I really need you to do while you're here is go up in the attic. I can't manage that ladder—quite impossible—but there are some paintings up there I know Finneas would have wanted you to have. Especially as you're an expert. I'm sure they're worth something, but you'll know better than I do. I insist you take them. I'm not putting those into storage to disappear. They meant too much to him.'

Inwardly, Flyte sighed. This was the danger of people's attics. Emotional boobytraps, every single one of them. 'How long has it been since you've been up there to have a look round?' he asked.

'Oh, ten years? Maybe more. Not since Finneas died. I would tell myself it had to get looked at, at least get someone up there to dust and deal with the cobwebs, but...you know. There were always other priorities. You'd be surprised how busy life can be in a small village, even Lower Snaverton. I shall miss it.' She held up one hand before he could speak. 'Don't say I'll make new friends. It's the last stop before you know what, so why make friends when you'll have to leave them soon?'

He thought there should be some anodyne response to this, but of course she was right. No use dressing it up. It was one of the things he loved and would miss about her, her complete lack of sentimentality, except when it came to Finneas. There, he was sure, memory had painted over quite a few of his uncle's flaws. He'd been twenty years older than his wife and a bit of a dragon, especially in his later years.