Edwina exhibited Martin to her friends and acquaintances as if she was auctioning him off.

‘This is my son, Martin. He’s single.’

Martin smiled graciously and indulged in the small talk that invariably ended with him parroting the same answers.

He was a retired archaeologist. No, not an architect, an archaeologist. Yes, a bit like Indiana Jones. No, he didn’t like snakes either. Mummies weren’t really his area of expertise. Clay pots were.

‘I wish you wouldn’t keep telling people I’m an archaeologist,’ he told his mother between encounters.

‘It’s the only interesting thing about you, Martin. Everybody is fascinated by mummies.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m an expert in pre-dynastic unglazed ceramics, remember? Not mummies, Mummy.

I know you’d like all your friends to think that I’m Australia’s answer to Howard Carter, but I was always more interested in the lives of the ordinary people. Not everyone could afford to be buried in a gold coffin.’

She looked as though she was about to say something, then thought better of it. He’d mentioned Carter but Martin could tell she was thinking about her glamorous life with Doctor Henry Pottinger, the respected Egyptologist. It was curious that she rarely mentioned his father’s name or spoke about him, considering she’d been married to and had a child with him. Growing up, Martin had been left to fill in the blanks as best he could.

Martin remembered the hushed voices surrounding his father’s death, the sympathetic looks and pats on the head from people he didn’t know. He’d been used to his father being away on digs in Syria, Sudan or Egypt. On the rare occasions he was home, he took Martin to museums, explaining in far too much detail for a boy of five or six, the history and meaning of each item. Martin could still feel the cool glass against his forehead as he leaned on the display cabinets, his breath fogging the surface, and the greasy prints left by his eager fingers that longed to touch what was inside. Then one day, his father was gone for good.

At six, Martin had been too young to fully understand death. There were things he’d been too afraid to ask. Without answers, the questions had stayed inside him, throbbing in his head and twisting in his tummy. In the church he’d taken his cue from his mother who’d remained dry-eyed and tight-lipped, and afterward he’d learned not to upset her by mentioning his father. As an adult, he wondered if perhaps his father, a dashing and charismatic man by all accounts, had been a philanderer too. Why else would his mother renounce his memory?

A woman who looked even more like Barbara Cartland than his mother did approached, trailing a middle-aged woman behind her. Edwina introduced the woman as Pat. Pat’s-husband’s-sister Pat. The reason Martin was enduring this whole excruciating experience.

‘Pat, this is Martin.’ Martin was immediately suspicious.

‘I’ve heard so much about you. You must meet my daughter, Sally.’ Pat seized Martin in one hand and the middle-aged woman with the other and pressed them together.

‘Sally is single too,’ she added. They smiled politely at each other.

‘Thank you, Mrs Bennet but I’m not sure this is the time or the place for matchmaking,’ said Sally, rolling her eyes.

The mothers made a not-so-subtle exit, leaving the two of them alone together.

‘For the record, I’m not single. I am a widow,’ said Sally. ‘My husband had a fatal heart attack while screwing his PA.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Martin said. Twenty minutes and his clean handkerchief later, he was very sorry indeed.

‘Look,’ said Sally checking to ensure the mothers weren’t within earshot, ‘to be honest, if I was in the market for a hook-up, I’d want a much younger man. No offence, Martin.’

‘No offence taken.’

‘Take my advice, if it’s sex you’re after, get on the apps,’ said Sally.

‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’ He searched for a suitable exit. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a crustless sandwich.’

He lunged for the sandwich platter like a drowning man for a lifebuoy. It was only when he was standing in front of the woman holding the platter that he recognised her.

‘May I interest you in something trapped between two slices of bread?’ she offered. ‘I can’t say with any certainty what the fillings are. It’s Russian roulette, I’m afraid.’

‘How very apt for a funeral,’ said Martin.

The woman smiled, then frowned. ‘I know your face from somewhere,’ she said.

‘I was on Time Team in 1996. It’s still available on YouTube. Perhaps you recognise me from there.’ When this didn’t ring any bells for her, he came clean. ‘More likely you saw me at Cynthia Preston’s funeral last week.’

‘That’s right. I remember now. I saw you arrive with the cat.’

Martin shrugged. ‘What can I say? It’s so hard to find a proper date for a funeral, don’t you think?’ He helped himself to a sandwich. Roast beef and English mustard, he guessed.

This time the smile lingered on her face. ‘The fox was a talking point too.’

‘Yes. I think it was still alive at the start of “All Things Bright and Beautiful.”’

The woman laughed. When was the last time a woman had laughed at one of his jokes? Replaying the dinner with Mary, as he’d done ad nauseam, the only time he’d made her laugh was when he tripped over her handbag on his way to the bathroom and crashed into a waiter carrying an armful of souffles. He was glad he’d provided some entertainment for the evening, only it wasn’t exactly the way he’d hoped.

‘Did you make these?’ Martin asked as he polished off another sandwich. This time the sandwich was disquietingly fishy. Tinned salmon, or tuna maybe?

The woman glanced over at the serving hatch and sighed. ‘No, that would be Moira. Moira does the catering. Moira does the flowers. Moira hands out the orders of service.’

‘She does all that?’

‘Yes,’ replied the woman through gritted teeth. ‘Moira Manners is undefeated in her decade-long reign as Martyr of the Year. She gets very touchy if anyone else tries to help. Especially me, for some reason.’ The woman sighed. ‘Sorry, you must think I’m a terrible person. I’m Grace, by the way. Graceless Grace, obviously.’

‘I’m Martin.’ Since three of their four hands were occupied with sandwiches, they merely smiled in greeting.

Apparently in no hurry to circulate the sandwich platter, Grace asked him how he knew Sandra.

He dropped his gaze and wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘I didn’t. I’ve never met her before. I brought my mother. That’s her over there. She’s the one in pink.’

Grace chuckled.

‘How did she know Sandra?’

‘A friend of a friend.’ It was too tenuous to unravel further. Martin continued the traditional funeral small talk. ‘Did you know Sandra well?’

‘Hardly, I’d never met her before either,’ Grace replied.

‘Really?’

‘Don’t look so surprised. There are at least half-a-dozen people here who wouldn’t know Sandra from a bar of soap.

Look, over there.’ Grace nodded toward a scruffily dressed older man who was piling sausage rolls onto a plate. ‘That’s Bill. He comes to every wake at All Souls. Always leaves with his pockets bulging. And see that lady over there?’ Grace gestured to a well-groomed woman who was squawking with laughter as she helped herself to white wine from a bottle. ‘That’s Claire.’

Martin noticed now. The hall was filled with people huddled together in conversations punctuated by polite laughter, while others, red-eyed, exchanged hugs with other puffy-eyed mourners. But there were also several people who seemed more focused on the food and the free booze. They were indeed the same faces he’d seen at Cynthia Preston’s funeral.

‘Are you saying these people have snuck in for a free feed?’