Trewarren was bathed in sunshine when I walked up the hill towards it the following morning. Facing east, as it did, to the sea, all its windows seemed to glitter with salty satisfaction as it stood, large, square and proud at the top of the huge sweep of gravel. The front door gently opened at my crunching feet and Truffle, old and with a gray muzzle, but clearly very sound of hearing, came arthritically down the steps to meet me, waving her tail apologetically for being so slow. I fondled her ears and crooned to her. A puppy when I'd first met her years ago, she'd pranced around Peter as he took his first steps here in the garden, cheering him on as she gamboled beside him, showing him how it was done. I'd often find Peter in her basket, which she chewed ferociously, letting him take the broken wicker pieces from her mouth and then — oh Lord — have a chew himself before I'd rush and retrieve them. I wouldn't retrieve the boy, though: he loved it in there and I loved to see them playing together in her bed, even though Belinda said it was unhygienic. I patted her gray flecked back and she followed me slowly inside.

The hall was cool and quiet. Only the long-case clock ticked under one of the two flights of cantilevered stairs which, having risen centrally as one, separated on to the landings. The pale-yellow walls were hung with familiar family portraits, all pioneers of Bellingdon Water. ‘Trade,’ Babs would say with a smirk to Roger, who would roar with laughter. I gazed at them now. Some terrible, some very good. All male. And of course, mine of Roger would hang here one day. And, no, it didn't daunt me. I have a lot of problems, but confidence in my work is not one of them.

I turned down the passageway away from the formal rooms and pushed on through the green baize door at the end. More through hope than expectation I poked my head around the first room I came to but, naturally, the gunroom was empty. I carried on down to the kitchen with a slightly sinking heart. If only it would rain, or at least not be quite so spectacular weather-wise, I might corner my prey. Yvonne, Belinda's daily, had her back to me in her apron. She had her mop out and was giving the floor what she'd call ‘a jolly good seein’ to’, so I perched in the doorway on the threshold of the wet tiles and called a loud ‘coo-ee’ above Woman's Hour. She turned.

"Hang on!" She flew to the counter and deftly put some pieces of newspaper down for me. I treated them like stepping stones and arrived to give her a hug. She gave her usual, nervous, infectious giggle as Truffle declined the paper and padded up.