‘Only part-time. And he’s a sort of voluntary vicar. They call them non-stipendiary or something like that. It means that he doesn’t get paid.’

‘But he’s young. So how can he afford a BMW Something-something if they don’t pay him?’

Emma explained about the office block in Ipswich and the flats in Norwich. Then she added, ‘He’s quite well off.’ And then, ‘He’s not too bad, actually. If you don’t mind him going on about Byzantium, he can be quite nice.’

She realised that Harriet did not know where Byzantium was. And then she realised that, witty and well informed though she was, she was a bit hazy on the subject herself. Justinian, Constantinople and … and …

The truth of the matter was that Philip Elton, although relatively well off, was not nearly as wealthy as people generally believed. He did indeed own an office block in Ipswich, and he owned it outright, just as he owned the portfolio of flats in Norwich. These properties brought him rents, but they were nowhere near as large as those imagined by Emma, and were offset by expenses that sometimes made him wonder whether he would not be better off disposing of the properties altogether.

The problem with the office block was that throughout the first thirty years of the building’s existence, very little maintenance had been done on it. Had the block been well built in the first place, that lack of maintenance might not have been too serious, but the original design and construction had been typical of the shoddy standards of the time, with the result that the external concrete panels of the building had been penetrated by water, rendering the cladding unsound. Here and there sections of this cladding had already fallen off, disclosing patches of damp and unsightly wall. This gave the building a neglected look that discouraged tenants; who would want business customers to see them in such shabby premises? As rents plummeted, it became increasingly uneconomic to spend money on repairs, and rents declined even further – a vicious cycle into which rental properties can so very easily fall. Tenants seemed to be unwilling to sign leases for longer than six months, hoping that as their business fortunes improved they would be able to move to more impressive and salubrious offices. No number of assurances by Philip seemed to convince his tenants that remedial work would be done, even when these assertions came in clerical garb. ‘Sorry, vicar,’ one of the tenants replied, ‘I wouldn’t accuse you of actually lying – you being a man of the cloth and all that – but I just don’t believe you.’

The problem with the flats in Norfolk was not dissimilar. Although these were in a respectable enough part of the city, they too had been built at a time when the authorities were keen to encourage new construction and were ready to turn a blind eye to the activities of builders who promised to complete projects quickly. The Norfolk flats looked all right from the outside, but were very badly insulated. As a result, their tenants had to spend considerable sums to heat rooms whose warmth immediately escaped through ill-fitting windows and thin walls.

Philip had commissioned a report on the problem from a firm of surveyors, and this made sombre reading. The cost of insulating each flat to contemporary standards was estimated to be at least fifteen thousand pounds, and although there would be some assistance from the local council, most of the money would have to come from the owner’s pocket. Once again, the deficiency in the properties depressed rents.

The office block and the flats were not the only assets that Philip possessed, but they made up a large portion of his wealth. Unless he could find about five hundred thousands pounds for the necessary repairs, his property would simply diminish in value until eventually it became worthless. That concentrated his mind. The easiest way of getting money, he decided, was to marry it. That had been done by one of his university friends, who had married the daughter of a transport magnate and now lived in Monaco. Philip heard from him from time to time and was regaled with stories of his sybaritic existence. ‘Getting married,’ he wrote, ‘was the most intelligent move I ever made. I am now blissfully happy, and, incidentally, rich. I thoroughly recommend it. Both states are highly desirable.’

Philip did not think there would be any difficulty in finding a suitable candidate. He had a very clear idea of his own good looks – he had always been aware that women found him attractive, and he had simply accepted it as his due. He was not particularly interested in the opposite sex, although he was far from being a misogynist. People in general did not interest him a great deal, except for himself, perhaps, a subject of considerable fascination to Philip.

He did not think that his life would have to change very much were he to get married. He could continue to do exactly what he was currently doing – working on his thesis on Byzantine History – while his wife, whoever she turned out to be, could run the home, cook, and generally look after him. All that was required of her was that she bring with her a suitable dowry – not that anybody called it that any more – and, if at all possible, a good-sized house.

Such as Hartfield.

Now, having had the front door opened for him by Mrs Firhill, he stood in the hall and looked about him with new eyes. He had been privately dismissive of the paintings on previous visits, but having made a decision as to his future, the contents of the house seemed to be of considerably greater interest. Philip was, in fact, rather well informed about art; he was a regular visitor to the Wallace Collection and the Royal Academy in London, and occasionally paged through the catalogues of the auction houses when an interesting sale was in the offing. He owned few pictures of note himself, other than a small preliminary sketch of Tobias and the Angel by Stanley Spencer and an indifferent Romney portrait of a young boy reading a book; now, looking about him in the hall, he saw that he had perhaps been wrong to dismiss the Woodhouse paintings as being little more than what one would expect in a unexceptional English country house. He knew that the non-Canaletto was merely by a ‘follower of’ an obscure Venetian painter who himself was never more than ‘circle of’ anyone better, so that it was worth, at the most, twelve thousand pounds, but he had no idea that the rather reticent watercolour on the opposite wall was a Nash and that next to it was what appeared to all intents and purposes to be a Ravilious.

‘Nice pictures,’ said Mrs Firhill. ‘They attract the dust no end, though.’

‘Hah!’ said Philip. ‘Dust is no respecter of art, is it, Mrs Firhill? No, I don’t think it is.’

Mrs Firhill shot him a sideways glance. She had always disliked him, and she would never go to his services on Sundays. Never. He was far too young and far too opinionated for her. And if she died, she hoped that this would happen while she was somewhere else so that Philip would not have the privilege of burying her.

‘You’ll find Mr Woodhouse in his library,’ she said curtly, giving a toss of the head in the direction of the library corridor. ‘That’s where he always is.’

‘Actually,’ said Philip, ‘I’ve come to see Miss Woodhouse. She’s invited me for tea.’

Mrs Firhill pointed down the other corridor. ‘She’s down there in her sitting room.’

‘I know the way,’ said Philip, looking down the broad corridor that led to Emma’s room. Once I’m established here, he thought, that old bat will go. ‘Thank you so much. And I hope we’ll see you in church one day.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mrs Firhill in the tone of one who rather doubted it.

‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘I would never force anybody to listen to any of my sermons.’

‘Not in a free country,’ Mrs Firhill mumbled.

He kept his tone light. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is a free country. Not that our dear government isn’t seeking to limit such freedoms as we currently enjoy.’

‘There are too many freedoms,’ said Mrs Firhill. ‘Some people think they can do exactly as they please.’

Philip wagged his finger at her in mock disapproval. ‘Tut, tut! Mrs Firhill! Charity. Charity.’ And he thought: Old bag.

He began to make his way down the corridor, but stopped after a few paces. The corridor was not particularly light, and this, he thought, was why he must have missed it. How otherwise could he have walked past a Stubbs?

He peered at the painting. The subject matter was right: a racehorse beginning its exercise on the downs; trees in full leaf; a sky of stacked cumulus cloud. And there, helpfully placed beneath the painting, the attribution etched into a small brass plate: Stubbs, Morning Gallop.

Philip drew in his breath. A Stubbs of this size could be worth at least two million, possibly much more. One had sold at auction recently for over twelve million pounds; he had seen a picture of the painting in the newspapers and read about the attempts to keep it in the country. The Australians had wanted that one, and presumably would jump at this painting too. For a brief moment he allowed himself to imagine his interview: ‘I’m keen to keep this in the country, I really am, and I’ll do whatever I can to ensure this result.’ He would be credited with saving the picture by allowing the National Gallery to purchase it at reduced price. ‘What’s the difference of a million or two when the nation’s artistic patrimony is at stake?’ And they would say: ‘It’s difficult to find the words to express our gratitude – it really is.’

‘It’s nothing,’ he would say. ‘Nothing at all. Such a small gesture.’

‘But so well targeted.’

‘Oh well, one does what one can.’ Of course one only does that sort thing after one has improved the insulation of one’s rental properties. ‘I can’t have people being cold, you know.’

Philip’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of high-pitched laughter from behind the closed door of Emma’s sitting room. He stepped forward and knocked.

‘Philip!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘You’re just in time. I was eyeing the last scone and struggling with temptation.’

He was gracious. ‘Such temptations should never be resisted,’ he said, smiling first at Emma and then at Harriet. ‘And if one falls, then there is no need for regret.’

‘Such an unusual thing for a clergyman to say,’ said Emma. ‘But then you’re non-stipendiary.’

Philip gave a short laugh. ‘That makes no difference. Holy orders are holy orders.’

Emma gestured for him to sit down next to Harriet on the sofa. As he did so, he noticed the sketchbook.

‘I’d forgotten that you enjoyed drawing,’ he said. ‘I’d give anything to be able to draw and paint. But some of us, alas, lack talent.’

‘I’m not much good,’ said Emma. ‘But I enjoy it. The important thing is—’

‘She’s really good,’ interjected Harriet.

‘I’m sure she is,’ agreed Philip.

‘I’m thinking of doing more portraits,’ said Emma. ‘If I could only find a suitable subject.’ She glanced at Harriet, who looked down at the floor.

Nobody spoke.

‘Harriet,’ said Emma brightly. ‘I could do your portrait. How about it?’

Harriet opened her mouth to say something – to demur, but it was Philip who spoke. ‘That would be a most wonderful thing,’ he said. ‘A portrait of Harriet Smith by Emma Woodhouse! What a picture that would be! I’d love to see it.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m not all that good at sitting still.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Emma. ‘And the artist doesn’t expect the subject to sit completely still. A portrait is not a still life.’

‘Exactly,’ said Philip. ‘A portrait should never be … be …’ He struggled to find the right word.

‘Static,’ said Emma.

Philip flashed another smile at her. There is something on one of his front teeth, Emma thought. A piece of spinach? Spinach often gets stuck on one’s teeth. She gave an involuntary shudder.

‘If you really wanted to,’ said Harriet. ‘I could sit if you really wanted to.’

‘Then that’s arranged,’ said Emma. ‘And you, Philip, will be the first person to see the sketch. I’ll even lend it to you, if you like.’

‘It will be an honour,’ said Philip.

‘Of course it will be difficult to capture Harriet’s looks,’ said Emma. ‘It’s never easy to capture beauty.’

Harriet squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Oh really!’

‘No,’ said Philip. ‘Emma’s right. It will be very difficult to capture Harriet’s quite exceptional looks on paper. No pencil, no pastel, no paint would ever be up to the job.’