At this, he grabs my shoulders and spins me round to face the room. My legs almost give way as I see the sweeping wooden staircase, the grand stone flooring covered in faded tapestry rugs, the moss-green velvet drapes, the outline of the stone griffins outside the window, and I realize with utter dread that I am in the hallway of Holly Maze House.

33. Then

The following day I make my way to Hampstead. The estate agent is a small boutique one, tucked away in a little square behind the high street. Its mullioned bay window and sage-green door with heavy brass knocker bring to mind Scrooge’s counting house in A Christmas Carol. It’s rather a fitting place to be marketing a property with such an illustrious literary heritage as Holly Maze House. I catch sight of my reflection in the window. I have borrowed Georgie’s pale-pink suede Stella McCartney shift dress. It’s a few seasons old but it gives the right impression: stylish, understated, wealthy.

A bell rings as I step inside and a young man, thin and wiry with John Lennon glasses and a mop of curly black hair, looks up from his desk by the window.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘How can I help you?’

I take a deep breath to steady myself, before explaining that I have come to enquire about viewing Holly Maze House.

The man raises an eyebrow, then invites me to sit down on the rickety wooden chair opposite his desk, introducing himself as Ed. Behind us, a young woman with inky-black cropped hair is answering calls.

‘Good afternoon, Price Burrows, how may I help you?’ she trills as Ed gets the details up.

‘This is a very special property,’ he says, his eyes brightening. ‘I don’t know whether you’re aware, but the house was the setting for a famous series of books.’

‘Really?’ I reply, not wanting to let him into my secret. ‘How fascinating.’

I smile as Ed gives me a quick summary of The Spirits of Holly Maze House, revealing himself, in the telling, to be utterly ignorant of the nature of both the books and their author.

‘Yes, it’s about, er … ghosts who haunt this house and … there’s a bird who, er, gets involved … and … well, the author, apparently has, er … lived in Hampstead all his life.’

I nod my head, recalling Geoffrey’s countless interviews where he told the story of his West Country childhood, his early marriage, the teaching career he’d had to let go for the stories that were burning inside him.

I grimace slightly. Ed must notice because he starts to backtrack.

‘Not that this house is haunted or anything like that,’ he says, his face reddening. ‘Not in the slightest. It’s just, the owner was inspired to write the story there. It’s a lovely place. Not a hint of any darkness at all.’