“I’d like to return a book. It was borrowed by a . . . friend.” Much as I’d love to keep the book forever, I nevertheless push it over the wooden counter. The librarian studies the card and then me, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh, it’s Madelyn’s!”

“You know her?”

Myfanwy nods. “Of course. Madelyn has . . . ,” she says, gently stroking the book, “hasn’t come to the library for a long time. I did wonder, because she usually drops in once a fortnight to borrow some books. Where’s she been? Is she on tour? Is she dancing with a famous singer again?”

She can see from my face that this isn’t the case.

“Perhaps we could go somewhere to talk about Madelyn?” suggests Eddie, who has appeared out of nowhere. Mrs. Cook turns pale. “You may be able to help us.”

“Me? To do what?”

“To wake Madelyn up,” I say.

MY FANWY FINISHES WORK two hours from now. She’s jotted down two addresses for us. The first is Maddie’s home—“I take it that you’re familiar with the concept of data protection, so I never gave you this address”—and the second is New College, where “Maddie would always sit under the large oak in the college cloister. She once said that that tree was her best friend, along with music.”

MADDIE’S FAMILY lived on the outskirts of the city. It doesn’t appear to be a rich area and reminds me of Putney.

“Can you manage?” asks Eddie as we approach the house.

I immediately recognized Maddie’s house as we were driving along the road, scanning the house numbers for the right one: it is the bleakest house in the whole area. We pull over to the curb.

The windows look as if they haven’t been opened for ages, the front lawn is overgrown, and the entire front of the house makes a miserable impression. Houses shrink when they aren’t lived in. As we stand gazing at the building, unsure what to do next, someone appears from the house next door.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks. She’s wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a tea towel.

“Almost certainly,” says Eddie, walking up the garden path toward her. I cannot hear what she says to the lady, but she points to Maddie’s house, then to me, and the lady claps her hands to her mouth, nods, and vanishes into her house.

Thirty seconds later she returns, having removed her apron, with a key in her hand. “Come with me,” she says. “There won’t be anything left in there soon. The owner sold the property, and the house clearance specialists are bringing their skips next week.”

I feel slightly queasy. If we hadn’t come today, they’d have emptied Madelyn’s home. Just like that.