‘See, it is beautiful, even on back? It not meant to stand against wall,’ he told me, ‘but in middle of room, pride of place − in lady’s room. Is called bonheur du jour,’ he added, speaking very carefully.

‘Bonheur du jour,’ I tried to translate, using my schoolgirl French, which is hazy to say the least. ‘A good hour of the day?’

Nick chuckled. ‘A daily delight,’ he corrected me. Behind the doors were rows of tiny drawers, and behind one of these, he showed me, a secret one. ‘Here she keep her love letters, eh?’

I wanted to search for secret drawers in all the furniture then, but it was time to get to work. I began the job of polishing the cellaret, first washing it down with a solution of a special soap and buffing it dry with a soft cotton cloth, which quickly became filthy as I removed a century of grime. Then I got to work with the beeswax, Nick watching me like a hawk to make sure I always worked with the grain of the wood, never against. He had taken off its brass handles and was sitting in an old armchair with half the stuffing hanging out, polishing them, not with metal polish, but with salt and vinegar, scrubbing at the intricate design with a child’s toothbrush.

‘Is this bonheur du jour valuable?’ I asked.

He made a hand gesture: so-so. I got the feeling he didn’t want to tell me its real value and I made a mental note to look on the Internet when I got home and see if I could find a valuation website for antique furniture.

‘You do good job, Juno,’ Nick said approvingly. ‘See how the wood begin to glow now?’

Suddenly, the doorbell sounded its death rattle, followed by an aggressive banging on the side door. Nick looked taken aback, as if he wasn’t expecting anyone, and then gave me an uncertain glance. ‘I see who is. You stay here, Juno,’ he said and shuffled out to answer the door.

I’d been kneeling on the floor for some time and decided to use the interruption to stand up, stretch and relieve the pins and needles in my legs. Wondering if the visitor might be the rather interesting Paul, I tiptoed painfully to the storeroom door and took a sly squint into the corridor.

It wasn’t him. The man standing in the doorway was shorter, powerful-looking, with blonde hair cropped very short, emphasising sharp cheekbones and small ears set so flat against his skull they gave him an alien, almost android, appearance. He was speaking to Nick with an urgent, hushed intensity, not in English, but something that sounded Slavic or Balkan. Nick was responding in soothing, conciliatory tones. The stranger wasn’t happy.