‘Do you know if he’s in?’ I asked.

The older and younger men exchanged a look. Downslope the third man brought down his axe and – crack – split another log.

‘I expect so,’ said the older man. ‘This time of the year.’

‘I’d better get on then,’ I said.

‘Feel free to pop in on your way back,’ he said. ‘We don’t get that many people up here.’

I smiled and nodded and moved on. There was even a viewing platform enclosed by railings on top of the dome. It was the house of an eccentric professor from an Edwardian children’s book – C.S. Lewis would have loved it.

A copper awning over what I took to be the front door provided a nice bit of shade and I was just about to ring the disappointingly mundane electric doorbell, complete with unfilled-in nametag, when I heard the swarm. I looked back across the track and saw it, a cloud of yellow bees under the branches of one of the trees that lined the track. Their buzzing was insistent, but I noticed that they kept to a very particular volume of space – as if marking it out.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice from behind me.

I turned to find that a white woman in her early thirties had opened the door – she must have seen me through the window. She was short, wearing black cycling shorts and a matching yellow and black Lycra tank top. Her hair was a peroxide yellow fuzz, her eyes were dark, almost black, and her mouth extraordinarily small and shaped like a rosebud. She smiled to reveal tiny white teeth.

I identified myself and flashed my warrant card.

‘I’m looking for Hugh Oswald,’ I said.

‘You’re not the local police,’ she said. ‘You’re up from London.’

I was impressed. Most people don’t even register whether the photo on your warrant card matches your face – let alone notice the difference in the crest.

‘And who are you?’ I asked.

‘I’m his granddaughter,’ she said, and squared her stance in the doorway.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

If you’re a professional criminal this is where you lie smoothly and give a false name. If you’re just an amateur then you either hesitate before lying or tell me that I have no right to ask. If you’re just a bog-standard member of the public then you’ll probably tell me your name unless you’re feeling guilty, stroppy or terminally posh. I saw her thinking seriously about telling me to piss off, but in the end common sense prevailed.

‘Mellissa,’ she said. ‘Mellissa Oswald.’

‘Is Mr Oswald here?’ I asked

‘He’s resting,’ she said, and made no move to let me in.

‘I’d still better come in and see him,’ I said.

‘Have you got a warrant?’ she asked.

‘I don’t need one,’ I said. ‘Your granddad swore an oath.’