A stone beneath the roof coping had been carved with the year of its installation: 1806. So, the villa had been in Joe’s family for more than two centuries. How many generations would that be? No wonder the DeLucas felt it was a place where they could connect with their history. And we were going to abandon it.

A tiny shiver of regret touched me like a whisper and in the same instant I heard a rustling in the gardens, as if someone – children – were moving swiftly through the undergrowth.

‘Stop it!’ I murmured to myself.

The kitchen door had been painted a dusty green; its original black metal hinges and architecture were still attached. I trod carefully towards it, avoiding sharp stones and the tight little yellow snails that had emerged on the flagstones during the night hours. There was an old water pump close to the back door and running along the back wall was a herb bed that had been taken over by a profusion of dill, sage and a leggy rosemary bush. Beyond that, still close to the kitchen, were fruit cages, though the fruit had grown through the netting, lifting the framework from the ground. The berries would provide feasts for the birds in late summer.

I pushed open the door and went into the kitchen. Jugs and plates lined the shelves, their colours muted by dust; pans hung from a rack on the wall. There was an enormous range for cooking and warming the water. A plastic clothes line was strung across the room, from one corner to the other, and fastened to it with coloured clothes pegs were faded postcards, photographs and pieces of paper. I hadn’t paid attention the previous day, now I reached for the nearest scrap of paper, yellow, lined, torn from a notebook. Written on it was a recipe: 3 limone, 250g zuccero, 3 uova. Beside it was a photograph of a man and woman I didn’t recognise, she wearing a headscarf, he with rolled up sleeves, a spaniel sitting at his side. The caretaker couple Joe had mentioned the night before, I guessed. Logs were stacked in the hearth and on the side was a plastic cutlery tray covered with a linen cloth; a folded magazine article tucked into the frame of a huge old mirror; a statue of the Virgin Mary. Everything in the kitchen spoke of a villa used, and loved, and lived in. It spoke of a thoughtful and attentive housekeeper. It was a place that had been cared for, where people were made comfortable, where stress was avoided.

The remnants of the shopping Joe and I had done the day before were on the drainer beside the sink. I took a bottle of water and hesitated – I thought I’d heard a noise from within the house.

‘Hello!’ I called softly.

I held my breath and listened, but heard nothing more.