Patricia resisted the urge to make a vulgar whooping noise. Whooping was for peasants. Cultured people like herself should limit themselves to a polite clap, and only then in response to Shakespeare, or to seeing a beggar arrested. But this was most encouraging – half a million pounds, and that was just for starters. The sale of Home Farm had ceased to be about the money long ago. But it would still sweeten her revenge.

‘Do I have five hundred and fifty thousand?’ the auctioneer began.

A paddle went up at the back of the crowd.

‘Six hundred?’

Another rose at the front. This was going to be magnificent. She, Patricia Porshley-Plum, was magnificent.

‘Six fif—’

‘STOP!’

Patricia’s innards groaned. She might have known this would happen. She turned to face the scourge of her existence.

‘Elliot! Pooky!’ she sang to the boy, who was flanked by his usual bunch of freaks. ‘Now let’s be shushykins and let the grown-ups talk.’

‘Good heavens! It’s the missing boy!’ one woman shouted, standing and pointing at Elliot. ‘I saw his picture on Wittering Women! I remember, they were talking about him just before the bit about whether it’s OK to marry someone you met on a Wednesday!’

‘It’s him! I read about him online! I retweeted his picture and everything!’ a man near the back cried out, pulling out his phone and taking a picture. ‘This is such great news! I’ll get loads of new followers . . .’

A flurry of mobile phones were aimed at Elliot. Patricia scowled. This was not part of the plan.

‘Behave yourselves!’ another woman cried, standing to shield Elliot from the cameras. ‘He’s just a little boy. Are you OK, dear?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Elliot. ‘Or I will be. When I get my home back.’

‘Thank goodness you’re all right!’ said Patricia, moving towards Elliot with open arms. The two sisters stepped menacingly forward, suggesting she should advance no further. ‘We’ve all been so worried!’ Patricia cooed. ‘A young boy missing for two whole days.’

‘It’s been nearly a week,’ said the woman.

‘Doesn’t time fly?’ chuckled Patricia. No one joined her.

‘This is my home,’ said Elliot. ‘Give it back.’

‘Oh, schnookums,’ said Patricia. ‘I know you’ve had the most terrible time, what with Mumsy and everything. But your daddy sold me the farm.’

‘That wasn’t my dad,’ said Elliot. ‘And you know it.’

‘What’s going on?’ said the auctioneer. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘No problem,’ said Patricia. ‘Just little Ellykins here struggling to get his head around the changes.’

‘Little Ellykins ain’t struggling with nothing, you horse-faced old bat,’ said an impudent young man with a winged hat. ‘You stole his house. And your fashion sense from the 1950s – double tweed? You are one epic anti-babe . . .’

Patricia handed the deeds to Home Farm over to the auctioneer.