In an attempt to divert myself, I scanned the room, taking in the cornucopia of items accumulated by Mrs Barley over the years. Opposite the door leading into the hallway, shelves from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, stood along one wall at the far end of the room. In front of this was the small dining table and four chairs. Various trinkets sat along the mantelpiece, above which hung a sturdy-looking circular mirror framed in ebony. A large wreath of dried flowers, a wicker pentacle across its diameter, hung on the wall of one alcove. An intricately woven corn dolly tied with red ribbon spiralled from the other, next to which dangled a clear glass orb, filled with what looked like bits of moss and potpourri. Four white candles in descending sizes were spaced out across the hearth. The furnishings were old-fashioned; all heavy, dark wood and itchy tapestry cushions, but beautifully maintained, and everything was spotlessly clean. The tick of the mantel clock was almost hypnotic.

A small, low table covered with a bottle-green velvet cloth stood in the alcove beneath the wreath. At the edge of the table, a curious little figure was propped against the wall. It was about six inches in height, faceless, and fashioned from knotted natural-coloured wool, with darker strands sprouting from its head. It was dressed in a simple hessian smock, the front pocket bulging with acorns. Next to it lay a huge, ancient-looking book, its threadbare cloth cover embossed in gold with what looked like runic letters, and a large candle in a brass holder. A band of brightly coloured fabric poked from between the pages of the book, as if it were being used as a page marker. The pattern nudged a twinge of familiarity.

Before I could take a closer look, Mrs Barley appeared with a tea tray. Noticing my interest in the table’s contents, she whisked the items hurriedly into one of the sideboard’s cupboards. As she went to close the door, I noticed a collection of similar dolls, all lined up inside, along with several large glass baubles. She placed the tray and its contents on the tabletop. I wondered for a moment whether I had seen something I shouldn’t have.

‘I’ve always liked making my little dolls,’ she told me, studying my face for a reaction. ‘My mother showed me how, and I used to make them as a child. I call that one Hecate. I made her years ago – for Samhain.’

I tried to remain nonchalant. ‘Who’s that?’

Her lips twitched in amusement. ‘No, not who; what. You’d call it Halloween.’

I realised it was her pronunciation that had confused me – Soween – I was familiar with the written word but had never heard it spoken before.