Since this formative incident, Sorcha had held the Holy Virgin in especially high esteem, as, indeed, had her whole extended family.

I ran over to de-tangle Mrs Meadows, but Mrs Meadows had already de-tangled herself quite efficiently.

‘Can I …?’ I flustered, and then, ‘Oh, yes, I see you’ve already managed to …’

Mrs Meadows was, it seemed, quite an efficient creature, in general. She smiled at me, appreciatively, nonetheless – head cocked, brown eyes shining brightly and darkly, the way a pretty bird’s eyes shine as they appraise a tiny grub.

‘I was just asking this gentleman’ – she indicated, gracefully, with a little lift of her shoulder – ‘if he knew the whereabouts of Mr Huff. He wasn’t certain, but he suspected that he might have gone away for a few days. Would you happen to know anything …?’

‘Let me …’ I offered to take the tureen from her.

‘It’s a chilled trout soup,’ she explained, passing it over and then shaking out her arms. ‘I’ve been carrying it around for hours. The road up here is completely blocked by vans. I had to leave my car down by the pub.’

‘Trout soup! How delicious!’ I responded (quite sincerely). ‘Yes, I’m afraid Mr Huff is currently …’ How to explain it? ‘He’s had to go away for a couple of days. On business.’

‘Oh. Well is there any chance I might be able to gain access to the cottage and store this in his refrigerator?’ she wondered. ‘Or maybe a kind neighbour might …? I mean it seems such a shame to lug it all the way back home again.’

‘I do have a spare set of keys,’ I confessed, after a short pause, ‘so that should probably be manageable …’

I smiled and turned – somewhat abruptly – hoping to make my escape, but Mrs Meadows stuck close by me as I started off across the lawn. ‘Could I possibly just tag along and scribble down a short note to leave with it so he knows where to return the tureen?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ I nodded (grimacing internally) as we picked a route across the garden and around the allotment, then climbed up the porch steps and Mrs Meadows waited, patiently, fragrantly, as I handed back the tureen, unlocked the door with my spare keys (no problem whatsoever with the lock mechanism this time around) and we entered.

The house smelled of … I frowned … rabbit pee. And fresh straw. And old tweed. And new wool. And … and creosote? Bacon rind? Of Mr Huff himself in other words.

‘Franklin didn’t make mention of any filming when we shared breakfast together yesterday,’ Mrs Meadows mused. ‘Is all this commotion connected to that poor dear girl with the tiny arms by any chance?’

‘Orla Cleary, yes.’ I nodded.

‘My late husband – Dr Meadows – was actually her physician,’ Mrs Meadows confided. ‘He thought the child was the most awful hysteric.’

I didn’t respond to this – at least not verbally – just walked into the kitchen and deftly moved a few dirty cups and plates from the counter into the sink to make room for the tureen.