‘Perhaps you should,’ he said. ‘Just to make sure everybody’s still alive.’

They’d both looked at the dog, knowing that her survival was, if not the most important, the most likely to be jeopardised. ‘Okay, then,’ Thea agreed.

She found the Barnsley kitchen to be completely unusable, since its electric supply had been cut off. Instead there was a microwave and electric kettle in the big dining room, on the oak table sitting at one side of the room. Plates, mugs, cutlery and a plastic washing-up bowl were also provided, along with a sheet of paper with the advice on it to ‘get water for washing up from 24the downstairs loo in the jug that’s in there. Food can be kept in the cool box in the hall. Sorry it’s all so uncivilised. You can always eat at The Pub. It’s open every day.’ It was signed by Gladwin, but must have been dictated by Tabitha Ibbotson. Thea had already ascertained that the pub was officially entitled The Village Pub, and was uncomfortably expensive. It would make a substantial hole in the hundred pounds a day that she was being paid, if she ate there each day.

She continued to explore, finding that there was at least Wi-Fi provision, rather to her surprise. The password was taped to the router box in a small back room evidently destined to be an office, and her laptop placidly connected to the great wide world without demur. The presence of a small amount of furniture indicated that Tabitha had taken up residence here herself, to some extent, before being forced to go abroad for her job. ‘Which is what, exactly?’ Thea had asked Gladwin.

‘She’s a professional pianist – surely I told you that?’

‘You did not. Not a word. Will there be a piano at the house, then?’

‘Bound to be – but you probably shouldn’t touch it.’

And there was. In the main living room at the front of the house, with its tall mullioned windows and decorated marble fireplace, there was a grand piano. It was shiny and black and important-looking. What a peculiar way to live, Thea mused – always needing something like this close at hand, and what a business it must surely be to transport it from one place to another.25

Tabitha Ibbotson’s lifestyle was becoming increasingly hard to grasp, as the exploration went on. Did she have some other home in Britain somewhere? A flat in London or a modest townhouse in Bristol or Manchester? After all, Gladwin had implied that she had been more than averagely well off even before her inheritance. Had she sold up and adopted the barely habitable Barnsley house as her sole base? How much did a professional pianist earn? Was she part of an orchestra or a solo performer? None of these questions had seemed remotely urgent until now, compared to the task of keeping Drew happy and reconciling herself to the separation from her dog.