He walked on to a stone veranda. French doors stood closed, their glass miraculously unbroken, paint peeling from the lead frames. He couldn’t see inside; the early evening sun was painting every surface with light. Idly, he tried the handle, only for it to move. He snatched his hand back. It couldn’t be open. No one would leave a house like this open, for anybody to walk into. Carefully, he pressed the handle again. It grated, stiff in its casing, until finally the latch released and the door drifted towards him.

His intended call of Hello? died as the scent of the house billowed out, filling his mouth with must and old perfume and sweet, decaying leather.

He was looking into a lounge. A huge Moroccan rug stretched across the floor, its ornate patterns faded by the sun. Sofas stood around an empty fireplace, their satin cushions dulled by time, the lining sagging. In a corner stood a grand piano, furred with dust. Mesmerized, he stepped through the door. The rug absorbed his slow footsteps as he crossed the room, so that he might have been a ghost, drifting through the past.

Was there anyone here? He stopped, listening carefully, but heard nothing. Heavy velvet curtains, blooming with mould, were drawn over the opposite windows. Carefully, Sam drew them back, the brass rings sliding like bangles on a wrist. Light flooded the room, orange-pink with evening. Beyond was another garden, he could see tangles of roses, blood-red and flesh-pink, dripping colour, stone benches, fountains, and a path, leading into a wilderness …

Dar Portuna. Was this where A lived fifty years ago, where someone else must have lived, until recently? Ears straining for any sound, he crept over to the bookcase, looking for clues as to whether the house was inhabited. The books he found were disappointingly dull; volumes on fishing and a leather-bound encyclopaedia set, the red spines faded to pink. At one end of the shelf sat a small silver cup, tarnished and rimed with dust. Gingerly, he picked it up and wiped his thumb across the engraved letters.

TANGIERS BLUE BLAZER ANNUAL SAILING RACE

1927 WINNER

ARTHUR LANGHAM

Arthur, poor man, Lillian had said. A. L. Arthur Langham.

So this was his house, Sam thought, staring at the trophy. Or – his neck prickled – it still is …

A noise made him leap, the trophy clattering back on to the shelf. He listened, eyes wide, to a faint repetitive thudding that echoed through the house, to a squeal and clank that sounded like antique plumbing. His eyes began to sting with panic. There was someone here.