In the next second a whole new and horrible possibility occurred to her. Perhaps all this talk about Walwyk was part of the plot. Perhaps she had never lived there, never taught here at all.

‘I am Miss Mayfield,’ she said.

‘How d’you do? I’m Barbara Grieve. My mother and I live next door. We’re just back from Jamaica. Did you expect your woman to be here? I have seen her about, but not this morning.’

‘I have a key . . . I think. But I came back unexpectedly and didn’t want to give her a shock.’

‘That’s all right, then.’ After one sharp glance, justified by the fact that someone had returned from a holiday without any luggage, Miss Grieve showed no curiosity. ‘Coming back suddenly,’ she said, in a kind but casual way, ‘if you want bread or milk or anything, we’ve plenty.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Miss Mayfield said.

She was glad not to be observed in her uncertainty about which key to try. The door opened and she entered what, if the postman and Miss Grieve were to be believed, was her very own house.

Her first glance around roused wonder. Where in the world did I get such lovely furniture? Then she saw, in the middle of the hall, a brown cabin trunk and a wooden crate, nailed down. Both had clean stick-on labels. She bent over them and read, in bold block letters, her own name: MISS D. MAYFIELD. Nothing else. No address.

The trunk and the crate were the only evidence that she had ever been in the house. It was as bare, as impersonal, as a hotel bedroom awaiting its next occupant; downstairs the sofa and chairs, upstairs the bed and the dressing table, were covered with dust sheets. There was nothing in any drawer or cupboard, no book on the shelves. In the kitchen the refrigerator was empty and its switch disconnected. There was nothing in the larder. Some exceptionally delicate and beautiful china cups were on the dresser. Miss Mayfield took one down and stood with it in her hands. I must have drunk out of this cup, washed and wiped it, hung it on its peg. A memory that did not respond to such a unique and beautiful thing must be gone indeed.

It was clear, from the condition of the house, the careful removal of all trace of her occupancy, that she was not expected back.

It was like returning from the dead. Worse. The revenant would at least recognize his old surroundings.