“No, I haven’t lost my dog again.” I cleared my throat. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m going to be honest. After what happened last week, I’m very curious about Merry Wood and would like to know a bit more about the house.” I paused. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.”

I noted that the woman’s fingers were splattered with flour.

“Oh aye?”

I gestured over my shoulder towards the deserted house. “I think this could have the makings of a very interesting story and I would appreciate it if you could tell me what you know about the house.”

Her silver hair wobbled in its haphazard bun. “Do you now? And what makes you say that?”

I squirmed a little on the step. I thought I was supposed to be the one asking all the questions. “The way you reacted when I told you I was a journalist.” I cleared my throat. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem rather protective of Merry Wood.”

The older woman’s lined mouth pinched deeper. A flicker of pain crossed her face. “I don’t mean to be rude young lady, but you don’t know anything. You don’t know anything about me or about that house.”

Ouch. Tough crowd.

“That’s true,” I persisted, “and that’s why I’d be very grateful for your help.”

She continued to stare me down.

“Look, Ms…?” I allowed the inflection in my voice to rise upwards.

She hesitated, her rinsed-out lilac eyes tense. “It’s Mrs,” she forced. “Mrs Lily Cruickshank. I’m widowed.”

“Mrs Cruickshank,” I repeated, relieved that I had managed to at least extract her name. “I’m Leonie Baxter.”

She met this information with clear indifference.

“And I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“Losing your husband.”

She raised her chin. “Well, I’m not.”

Okaaaaay…

I shuffled from foot to foot on her step. “I’ve done some digging on Merry Wood and so far, I haven’t been able to come up with anything.”

“That’s not a surprise,” she snorted.

“What makes you say that?”

Her pale lips twitched with self-satisfaction. “That house hasn’t been occupied for nearly fifty years now.”

“Fifty?” I gasped. “It’s been sitting like that for all this time? Why?”

She pinned me to the shadowy step of her home. “Times change. People move on.” She swallowed. “Folks do strange things when their heart is broken.”

“What do you mean?”

A troubled cloud drifted across her features and stayed there. She didn’t answer.

I eyed her. “I was told by a contact that the house is still owned by someone called Talbot. Is that right?”

A distant look passed over her face, followed by something more wistful, before a sudden flurry of activity from a blackbird in a nearby hedgerow made Mrs Cruickshank flinch.