Mrs Oates glanced at both of us. “It’s your grandson – and Ms Baxter, the journalist from the other day.”

There was a slam of a door. “What the hell?!”

Flynn Talbot senior’s feet thundered down the glossy staircase. His silver moustache waggled with fury. “Ah, the cavalry, I see. Now look, I’ve already said my piece.”

But his grandson wasted no time. “May I?” asked Flynn, gesturing to my shoulder bag.

I dipped my hand in and produced the papers I had managed to obtain from the council about Merry Wood’s sale – or lack of it – and handed them to him.

“We have proof, Grandfather, that Merry Wood wasn’t sold. From the council. I spoke to Grandma this morning and up until today, she was convinced it had been. You even gave her the proceeds, purporting to be from its sale.”

The older man’s jaw jutted out.

“And Lily Cruickshank still lives in the cottage opposite,” I interjected. “Even after all these years.”

I thought his eyes were going to fall out of his head. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “Lily?” Then he swallowed and tried to compose himself. “This is ridiculous! You have no right poking around in my private affairs!”

“So, you’re not denying it then?” pushed Flynn, folding his arms. “You let my parents think Merry Wood had been sold all those years ago.”

Flynn senior’s lips ground together harder.

“Well?”

He looked to Mrs Oates for support.

She gave him an awkward smile. “Whatever has been going on here, Mr Talbot, don’t you think you ought to be honest?”

He shifted his eyes heavenwards to the corniced hall ceiling.

When it was clear that his grandson and I weren’t prepared to leave without answers, he threw his hands up into the air. “All right! All right. For the love of God! If it means I can return to the peace of my studio, then let’s get this over with.”

He grunted something else and directed us to the right with a jab of one irritated finger. “I suppose I was deluding myself if I thought I could keep this quiet forever.”

The room was an amber and toffee affair, furnished with two marmalade-coloured sofas and an armchair. I imagined sitting there, surrounded by all these rich, autumnal colours, losing myself in a hot chocolate and marshmallows on a dark, chilly evening. A Cary Grant movie would be on TV, the velvet curtains framing dancing leaves out on the lawn.

Flynn senior’s voice dragged my attention back. He ordered us to sit down, but Mrs Oates made her way to the door.

“And where do you think you’re going, Mary?”

Mrs Oates’s hand froze over the door handle. “I thought you would want your privacy, Mr Talbot.”