Derwent Marina was quiet. The small building, set back from the beach, with seats outside and at least fifty boats and vessels for hire, was a modest operation. The car park catered for about ten cars. The place ticked along during the winter but saw a steady trade build from the spring onwards. There were boats and kayaks available to buy, but mainly it was rentals that brought in the steady flow of cash that enabled Graeme Millar to pay his mortgage and live a comfortable life. He paid a few locals to fit buoyancy aids, size up wetsuits and generally keep the place clean and tidy, but he ran the business and was responsible for the upkeep of the plot. The land didn’t belong to him; he paid rent to a landlord who refused to sell up. In fact, most of Derwent Water’s coastline was privately owned by wealthy families desperate to cling on to illustrious histories but unsure of how to maintain their enormous estates. Most had been turned into luxury holiday homes, or water sports centres.

Allerdale House was no different. It stood huddled behind trees on the lake’s western shore, away from the prying eyes of the tourists crammed onto the steamer puffing between Keswick and Lodore every day. But a kayaker, strong of arm and curious to boot, might catch a glimpse of the grand slate facade, slightly up a hill and facing east. The trees shielding the residence from nosy visitors had been planted over two hundred years ago, and the only indication that they guarded something special was a sign on the beach that read: Private: Keep Out! No landing on the beach. Graeme Millar told every customer the same, and even supplied a map showing which beaches they were allowed to paddle up to. The red lines denoted no-go areas, and there were plenty of them. With Allerdale House’s owner passing away after Christmas, who knew what would become of the place.

At 9 a.m. the wind was insignificant, and Graeme knew that it would be a good day for business. It was Whitsun week and the kids were on half-term. Sure enough, two cars pulled into the car park and children got out, looking at the water and approaching the kayaks with delight. He always recommended two hours for families with small kids, because he knew that it would take them at least an hour to make it out of the marina. Derwent Water was just under three miles long, but an inexperienced kayaker would be lucky to get halfway down before having to turn back again, either through cold or exertion. There were a few islands in between to keep them occupied, including the one where Swallows and Amazons was set, though Graeme reckoned that the majority of kids hauled to the Lake District on holiday these days hadn’t even heard of the book.