My uncle was deeply engrossed in Part 2 of Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps when he became aware of my mother’s presence. She stood palely at the door – much in the manner of Lady Anne’s ghost from Richard III – gesticulating silently that he should keep quiet and follow her.
Anticipating a glimpse of a beatifically sleeping nephew, my uncle was unprepared to be led to the body of a stabbed man lying in the hall. Naturally enough, he leapt to the conclusion that either my mother or grandmother was responsible. “My God, what made you do it?” he exclaimed.