The house had an unhurried, gracious air; the grounds were big, a couple of acres, and the three storeys rose up white and serene to a grey slate roof. But the lawn was scruffy and neglected, the garden beds needed weeding and from where I stood on the porch I could see daylight up through holes in the section of guttering above my head. When the house was built the view down to Rushcutters Bay would have been uninterrupted — the green would have flowed down to white shimmering sand with a deep blue beyond that. Now there was a lot of rooftop and highway and bad air between the house and the water.

I stood in front of the doorbell, a no-nonsense black button on a brass plate, feeling ambivalent. I should have felt out of place, a private detective with one phone, one car and no secretary, but the house’s down-at-heel character comforted me. Great edifices, like people, could fall on hard times. I hoped Lady Catherine Chatterton’s times weren’t too hard. I work for money, not for the privilege of dropping the names of my clients.

I rang the bell and straightened my clothes — leather jacket, good but old, clean shirt, clean denim pants, no tie. The door opened soundlessly and a dark-haired woman with a bold, beaky-nosed face stood there looking at me as if I were a rag-and-bone man.

‘Yes?’ Welcomes weren’t her big talent.

‘My name’s Hardy. Lady Catherine telephoned.’

She stepped forward as if she was going to smell me. ‘Ah, the detective.’ Her thin lips and small white teeth were contemptuous. ‘Yes, she told me to expect you. Usually I do her telephoning.’ She made a challenge of it and I decided that a smile might be in order.

‘Well, maybe you were busy.’

She sneered at that but stepped back and opened the door just enough for me to go past her.