I had once tried to explain all this to Laura in my cups the night I won my one and only Academy Award – that I didn’t deserve it, that at any moment the bubble would burst, everyone would realise what a phoney I was, and I would be put back right where I belonged. But she didn’t understand. To her American mind, of course, I deserved the Oscar. The Academy wouldn’t have given it to me otherwise, would they? So why didn’t I just accept the damn thing and enjoy the party like everyone else? Then she laughed and hugged me and called me her beautiful fool.

Kilnsgate House towered over me. It had a typical enough Dales facade, from what I could see as I walked up the path between the trees and the overgrown lawn, a broad symmetrical oblong of limestone with a hint of darker millstone grit here and there, two windows on either side of the front door, the same upstairs, and a slate roof. There was an arched stone porch at the front, with wooden benches on either side, which reminded me of the entrance to an old village church. I guessed that it was a useful area for taking off muddy boots after a day’s grouse-shooting or riding with the hunt. There was even an elephant’s-foot stand for walking sticks and umbrellas.

Above the lintel was a date stone carved: ‘JM 1748’, which I took to be the initials of the original owner. The keys were taped under the bench on my right, as Mrs Barlow had promised they would be. She had also said she regretted that she couldn’t be there to greet me, as she had an urgent appointment in Greta Bridge, but she promised to call by around six o’clock and see me settled in. That gave me plenty of time to get acclimatised and have a good look around, though I was beginning to regret that I hadn’t stopped to pick up some supplies at the Co-op I had passed on my way through Richmond. I didn’t want to have to go out again tonight, not now that I was here, but I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, and my stomach was starting to rumble.