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to buy Garden Lodge. Then I told myself there was no uniform for millionaires. Perhaps they made their money by economising on clothes and haircuts.
    I felt unaccountably nervous. This was the kind of thing Jack used to do. Jack was good with people and could talk to anyone. He’d been the one who’d bought and sold houses. I’d decorated, gardened and cooked. I’d been the home-maker, but it had always been a home of Jack’s choosing.
    Mr Grenville was still standing on the doormat, waiting for me to show him round, so I pulled myself together. ‘This is the hall,’ I announced superfluously. ‘There’s plenty of storage,’ I added, opening a glory hole cupboard and shutting it again quickly before the contents could tumble out. ‘And through here we have the kitchen.’
    ‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked, examining me and not the kitchen.
    ‘I don’t actually live here. I’m staying with my mother until she’s sold the house.’
    ‘Has she lived here long?’
    ‘Yes. Since the early seventies. My father renovated the house and garden.’
    ‘Ah, yes, the garden. It’s very old, isn’t it?’
    ‘It was the kitchen garden attached to the big house.’
    ‘Beechgrave.’
    ‘That’s right. Would you like to see inside the kitchen cupboards?’
    ‘No, thanks, that won’t be necessary.’
    ‘The dishwasher’s brand new,’ I said, pointing.
    ‘Is it?’ He gave the machine a cursory nod, said, ‘That’s useful to know,’ and looked eager to move on.
    He showed no interest in the scullery or the downstairs cloakroom, but stood in front of windows, looking out in various directions. The burglary option seemed increasingly likely, though unless he knew about paintings, he would see nothing worth stealing. Phoebe owned a decent art collection which she’d assembled over the years, often buying when an artist was unknown and still affordable, but Mr Grenville ignored the paintings. When we got to the sitting-room and I introduced Phoebe by name, there was no flicker of recognition, so I concluded he either knew nothing about art or was a very good actor.
    He viewed each room politely and briefly, showing no inclination to linger until we came to my room with its view of the wood and distant Beechgrave up on the hill. He stood at the window and looked out in silence until I asked if he had any questions. That jolted him out of his reverie and he said, no, he didn’t want to take up much more of my time.
    I was starting to feel slightly annoyed, or perhaps it was disappointed. ‘Would you like to view outside? The orangery was converted into a studio for my mother, but it would make a lovely big summer house. Or an office.’
    ‘Yes, please. I’d really like to have a look round the garden.’
    ‘There’s not a lot to see at this time of year, but the building plot is sizeable.’
    ‘Building plot?’ He looked surprised.
    ‘Well, yes. We assume that’s what most people will be interested in. The walled garden is a nice level plot and the old brick walls are very attractive. Or they would be if you removed all the ivy. But you don’t have to take the land. We’re selling in two lots. The house and woodland are one lot, the walled garden and outbuildings are the other.’
    He looked crestfallen. ‘I didn’t realise you were breaking it up.’
    ‘All the details are in the brochure,’ I said, sounding rather curt.
    ‘I see. Sorry, I hadn’t really registered...’
    I glanced out of the window and said, ‘It’s started to rain again, I’m afraid.’
    ‘I won’t keep you long. In fact, you don’t even need to show me round. I can explore on my own. I know my way round a Victorian garden,’ he added cryptically.
    ‘I’ll have to unlock the studio for you. It’s a bit of a tip, I’m afraid. It’s where I work.’
    ‘I thought you said your mother—’
    ‘She used to work there until she became ill. She hasn’t been able to paint for some time now, so I’ve taken over the