Half an hour passes swiftly in the old man’s company. As Tilda sits on the squishy sofa, her feet curled beneath her, the reviving tea and the friendly conversation with the professor have such a restorative effect upon her that she soon feels quite differently about what she thinks she saw at the lake. Their talk has taken them from the history of the area to the abundance of wild birds that now live there, and the fact that the farside is a thriving example of local tourism, with its campsite and boats for hire and sailing lessons. It all sounds to Tilda so reassuringly normal, and convinces her that her fanciful mind had been working with her tired body to trick her, nothing more.

Not enough breakfast. Pushing myself too hard. Too much time spent on my own.

As she forms the thought she remembers she does not, actually, live alone anymore. She has a shaggy hound as a housemate, one that might be in need of letting out by now. She puts her cup on the tray and stands up.

‘I ought to get on,’ she says. ‘Leave you in peace.’

‘My dear girl, I have nothing but peace, these days. Your visit was a most welcome distraction from the day-to-day. Please do drop in on me again.’

They make their way into the hall, where Professor Williams notices that the clock is no longer working.

He peers at it, tapping the glass that houses the face. ‘Strange. It’s usually such a reliable timepiece.’

Tilda watches him as he opens the casing and adjusts the weights and chains inside. She is aware of some of her earlier anxiety returning. ‘Perhaps it needs winding up,’ she suggests, even though she knows nothing about clocks, and is fairly certain the professor is the sort of man who would look after such a fine antique with great care.

‘No, no, I don’t think it’s that. Let me see…’ He minutely alters some setting which Tilda cannot see. There is a pause, and then the hallway is once again filled with the steady rhythm of the grandfather clock. ‘There!’ The professor shuts the door to the workings and gives the thing an affectionate pat. ‘Lovely craftsmanship. Look at the inlay, can you see from there? Here, thin strips of a lighter-colored wood cut and set into the walnut casing. Beautifully done. You’d think it was painted, the joins are so flawless. If you run your fingers over it the surface is as smooth as marble. You try,’ he says, standing back.