It’s a magnificent-looking pie, admittedly. And I’m all but starving. I put down my knitting, take the pie from her and transport it through to the kitchen.

‘If only you’d been straight with me from the very start – phoned me, sent me a letter – this all could’ve been so different,’ she persists.

Is she actually being sincere? If I’d sent her a letter?! Nah. I’m not convinced.

‘I can’t stay long …’ she adds, sniffing the air, anxiously. ‘There’s a very strong smell of eucalyptus …’

Ah yes, the much-touted disinfectant allergy!

She frowns and clears her throat, almost nervous, as if preparing herself for something, then sneezes, twice. ‘Do you smell it?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Eucalyptus.’

‘Nope,’ I lie.

I place the pie on to the breadboard and take out the bread knife.

‘That isn’t the proper board for meats,’ she says.

‘This isn’t meat,’ I answer. ‘It’s pastry. It’s a pie.’

‘A pie containing meat,’ she corrects me. ‘A meat pie.’

I cut into the pie, nonetheless. She winces.

‘Your rules about cutting boards in the Welcome Pack are certainly voluminous,’ I say (keen for her to know that I am aware of the rules; in fact I recall that there are almost two whole pages on this subject in the aforementioned tome. Nothing – nothing – not so much as a paltry line, about the temperamental toilet flush).

‘Jewish/German heritage.’ She shrugs. ‘And I’m a trained nurse. I did an entire nodule on basic food hygiene.’

An entire nodule?!

‘I believe the fall of the Holy Roman Empire ultimately hinged on a badly prepared prawn,’ I quip.

‘I’m very sorry she’s dead, Mr Huff,’ Miss Hahn murmurs.

I pull out a slice of pie and notice that there is hardly any aspic in it at all. My hunger is suddenly quite overwhelming. I forgo the luxury of a plate and take a bite. It is delicious. It is utterly delicious. It is the most … the most … the most succulent, flavourful, rich, moist, sweetly porky …

I idly notice that Miss Hahn is watching me with an expression akin to alarm. Some time has passed, but I couldn’t say how much exactly.

‘You seem alarmed, Miss Hahn,’ I note.

‘How long since your last square meal?’ she asks.

‘Three days,’ I say, ‘four days.’

‘Pace yourself,’ she suggests.

I help myself to a second, larger slice (almost on principle, I suppose).

‘Was it very sudden?’ she wonders.

‘No. I just gradually ran out of money, over time. I ate less and less. Then finally I stopped eating altogether. Starvation generally follows a fairly predictable arc, I find.’

‘Well there’s still stuff on the allotment,’ she gently chides.

I don’t respond. A handful of blackening chard? Three soggy leeks?

‘There was something so … so terrifyingly competent about her,’ she continues, gently adjusting the ‘bandage’ around her thumb (Are we actually talking to each other here, I wonder? I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure. Yup. Only us). ‘I mean nothing ever seemed to faze her.’ She grins, remembering. ‘She was prepared for every eventuality. So able. So experienced. I never saw her in any colour other than black. But everything spotless. It was so intimidating. That shock of white-blonde hair and that amazingly luminous …’