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mile down this road, straight past the holiday lodges and the village itself and you’ll come to the lakeside.  Park your car in the secure garage and there’ll be someone from the Hall waiting to make sure you’re taken good care of.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘No problem.  I’m sure you’ll be seeing me around over the next few days.  You have yourself a relaxing evening, now.’  Coyle disappeared into the lodge and moments later the gates swung smoothly open. 
    *****
    I drove along the track that Coyle had indicated, and counted no less than eight CCTV cameras, their winking red lights proof that they were the genuine article.  There was another sign in that same  calligraphy: Your Registration Details Are Being Recorded For Security Purposes .  I had no doubt that they were.
    Inoffensive Scandinavian-style wooden chalets were scattered throughout the woods, with enough distance between them to give their occupiers the illusion of splendid isolation, but dense enough to reap a decent profit for the owner.  Two well-scrubbed, wholesome looking children played badminton on the grass outside the closest cabin, using this year’s Range Rover as a net.  Their Germanic pastel co-ordinating outfits suggested that little Olivia and Xavier wouldn’t be getting their hands on the latest polyester football strip anytime soon and I just knew that somewhere there would be at least one Labrador to match daddy’s shiny black motor.
    The skin in the crook of my arms began to itch, and I hoped like hell it was psychological.
    Begrudgingly, I had to admit that Albermarle itself was a revelation.  I had expected some utilitarian tourist centre with a shop that sold everything and perhaps a reluctantly added bar.  What I found was an Anglophile’s wank-fantasy, complete with a compact high street of perhaps twenty immaculate late Tudor buildings that included a beauty salon, delicatessen, several expensive boutiques and a pub.
    I turned the final corner that would take me to my parking place by the jetty and there, like an enchanted castle that the Grimm brothers might have conjured up after a night on the absinthe, Albermarle Hall stood regal and aloof on its own emerald velvet island. 
    Even in the evening’s damp gloom, I could see that the Hall was magnificent.  It had been built in the same era as the village, to house whichever lord had held sway over the tiny settlement.  The fortified walls and slit windows told of a time when this was a place to be defended to the death, so at least if an invading army of paparazzi made it across the lake to the island, I could engulf them in boiling oil.
    I parked my car in its designated garage and hauled my luggage from the boot.  I looked around for a CCTV camera to protect her, but this seemed to be the only corner of the village not to have one.  I supposed – hoped –  that it would take a pretty skilled car thief to breach the defences I had seen so far.
    ‘Ms Bresson?’ A sweet, soft voice called, and an immaculate little man with close-clipped grey hair stepped out of the shadows and proffered his hand.  ‘Ms Bresson, I’m Henry Masterson, Blaine Albermarle’s PA, and I must say that I’m absolutely overjoyed to meet you at last.  Here, let’s get your things onto the boat, then we can get you inside and fed.  You must have had an incredibly tiring day.’  He led me to a small launch that rocked gently against the jetty, and gestured for me to step aboard. 
    Once Henry had carefully stowed my cases with a strength that belied his slight frame, he started the motor and I began the final stage of my reluctant journey.  My left shoulder smouldered like a dying bonfire, and I needed the arthritic’s holy trinity: painkillers, a hot shower, and sleep.
    I rubbed at my eyes.  My contact lenses felt as though they had welded themselves to my eyeballs, and I couldn’t wait to remove that part of my disguise. 
    ‘If you have the energy, Lady Albermarle