‘I’m Sage, by the way,’ Mrs Meadows volunteered, appraising me intently (perhaps sensing a slight frost in the atmosphere). ‘Have we met before? Now I come to think of it, you do seem quite familiar …’

‘Uh, I’m not sure that we have,’ I confessed. ‘I’m Carla. Carla Hahn – Mr Huff’s landlady.’

Mrs Meadows’s brown eyes widened with surprise.

‘You? The Miss Hahn?!’ she exclaimed, then burst into ringing peals of laughter. ‘But you aren’t at all as Mr Huff described you to me!’

I was initially uncertain whether to be amused, confused or offended by this violent reaction, or – indeed – whether the laughter itself was rooted in delight or something more akin to irritation.

‘How curious, though!’ she expanded. ‘I thought you’d be an old crone! From the way he described you, I honestly thought you’d be twice the age you are!’

As she spoke she rapidly moved forward, and then, ‘Good heavens!’

She almost tripped over the fireguard containing the rabbit.

‘Ah,’ I muttered (struggling to keep the satisfaction from my voice), ‘one of Mr Huff’s more recent acquisitions.’

‘A dwarf rabbit!’ Mrs Meadows exclaimed. ‘Under a fireguard!’

She started to put the tureen down on to the rickety dining table.

‘You should probably …’ I started off, just as the flap on to which she’d begun to place it tipped alarmingly. She quickly tightened her grip and whisked it away again, only narrowly averting disaster.

‘Perhaps straight into the fridge?’ I suggested with an apologetic smile.

Mrs Meadows tripped obligingly into the kitchen.

‘So this is your house,’ she mused, gazing around her. ‘Franklin said you kept it as a kind of dilapidated … well, museum I suppose.’

I opened my mouth to respond to this statement, but then closed it again (unable to bring myself to compose an acceptable sentence).

‘We do have that much in common at least,’ she conceded (as if there wasn’t – in all probability – anything else). ‘I’m an aspirant poet and live in Lamb House, Rye. Former home of …’

‘Henry James.’ I nodded.

‘You may well have known my late husband, Dr Meadows – Don Meadows?’ she expanded, graciously.

‘Yes, but not … not especially well,’ I admitted. ‘He wasn’t my GP. I’m with Dr Sap at the Hastings surgery. Although we met on several occasions in my capacity as … as Orla’s nurse, obviously.’

‘All this was way before my time,’ she sighed, almost petulant, now, ‘and Don rarely spoke about it – he was incredibly professional like that.’

I nodded.

‘But I always got the impression that he found the whole situation terribly unhealthy and claustrophobic … Although the father – Bryn?’

‘Bran,’ I corrected her.

‘Bran. Bran Cleary. He was an artist of some repute?’

‘A muralist. Yes.’

‘He had a measure of success internationally, Don said, although I can’t pretend,’ she confided, in faux-shame, eyes sparkling, one brow coyly arched, ‘to have ever seen any examples of his work.’

‘I believe he was thought to be very talented,’ I murmured. ‘Did you say this was a trout soup?’