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while.”
    “Can I give you a hand to clear this lot up?”
    “No, I’ll get to it later. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
    “I’d love one, thanks, but if you tell me where everything is I’ll make it,” Grace offered.
    “So, what brought you back then?” he asked.
    “I found his grave and I was curious, I guess. I’d like to know more about him. You seem to know so much about him, I thought you might be able to tell me a few things.”
    “Now that is an interesting concept. I hoped the same from you.”
    “You did?”
    “Yes, Grace, I did.”
    “What could I possibly tell you about Robert Hamilton? I’ve only just come across the man. You and Kate are the ones that seem to know all about him.”
    “Well you could start by telling me where you’re from?”
    “Harry I don’t get you. One minute we’re talking about a dead man and the next you’re asking where I’m from.”
    “Strange, huh?” he replied with a shrug.
    “Harry you talk in riddles, I’m not going to even pretend to understand what you are going on about.”
    Grace followed him into the kitchen. Spotting two mugs in the sink she rinsed them and reached for a seemingly clean drying up cloth on the side of the counter.
    “How do you like your coffee?”
    “As it comes, coffee is coffee to me.”
    Grace smiled to herself. If someone had asked her a few minutes ago how Harry liked his coffee she would have guessed that he didn’t much care. She had always thought you could tell a lot about a person by the coffee they drank.
    “Harry, what do you know about Robert’s wife?”
    “Probably less than you do.”
    “So you don’t know who she was then?”
    “Oh, I know who she is alright.”
    “Well then I would say you know a whole lot more than I do about her.”
    “What do you want to know about Robert’s wife then?”
    “Well anything really. How old she was when she married him, what her name was. You know, just anything you know.”
    “Grace, put your cup down. I have something to show you.”
    “That sounds very cryptic, Harry. What have you got?”
    “It’s a portrait, of Robert and his wife.”
    “You’re kidding. That’s amazing. I’d love to see it. How on earth did you get hold of that?”
    “It was here, in the attic. I found it about twenty years ago.”
    “Did you find anything else, besides the portrait?”
    “No, just the portrait. For years I couldn’t work it out.”
    “Work what out, Harry.”
    “The portrait... there was something wrong with it... but for the love of money I couldn’t see what it was.”
    “But you know now?” asked Grace, her mind racing with excitement as the natural historian in her took over.
    “Yes, I know what is wrong with the portrait now.”
    “Can I see it?”
    “Of course,” he said solemnly. “It hangs in the hallway, just before the ladies toilets. I put it there so that it wouldn’t be missed. If the lady... err... oh, forget it, just come with me and I’ll show it to you.”
    Grace followed him out of the kitchen and through the main section of the building. He swiped a half finished bottle of whisky off the bar as they moved past it and on towards the hall.
    It was a narrow dark space with uneven plastered walls but she could see the frame of the picture as they approached. An excited bubble grew in her stomach as the canvas came into view. It was him, Robert Hamilton, his eyes sparkling, a broad smile on his face and beside him... was his wife. Her knees buckled and her legs gave way as the room swam around her.
    “It’s alright, girl, I’ve got you,” he whispered.
    Limp in his arms, Grace tried to speak but her throat was too tight, her pulse raced and tiny beads of sweat formed on her face. Harry lowered her to the ground and sank down beside her on the carpeted floor of the hallway.
    “You have got to be... kidding! Is... this... some sort of joke?” she stammered turning white faced to the man beside her.
    “No, Grace, this isn’t a joke.