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“Well, what should we do? We need to get inside.”

I hesitate and then Frank solves the problem by tugging his lead out of Blue’s hand and pelting away down an overgrown path.

“Oh spiffing,” Blue mutters. “Frank, come back here.”

We follow him, pushing our way past large peony bushes, and finding ourselves in a huge sunken garden.

I whistle and Blue looks around, his mouth dropping open. “What the fuck is this?”

“A sculpture garden?” I offer, looking at the dozens of statues that are set around the space. They range from centaurs to nymphs to huge lions.

“Aristocrats have far too much time and money,” he grumbles. “Most people just put flowers in their gardens. Not whopping fucking statues.” He skirts a nymph riding a horse. “And why are they always bloody naked?”

I spot Lord St Claire. He’s crouching at the foot of the statue of a particularly creepy-looking angel and looking rather glumly at the dead weeds surrounding the base. His expression changes to shock as Frank gives one warning bark and barrels into him, knocking him onto his back.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims.

“Sorry,” Blue calls.

“Mr Billings?” He stands up, clutching a trowel.

“Yes, that’s me. Levi and I were having breakfast at the cafe and Frank came in.”

He groans. “I’m so sorry. He does love that place and the cake. Thank you so much for bringing him back.”

“Not a problem. We were coming up anyway.”

He blinks. “You were?”

I fold my arms. I can’t wait for whatever this plan is. When Blue thinks on the fly, the results can sometimes be a teeny bit erratic.

Blue nods. “Yes, the last time we were here you said you’d give us a tour of the house.”

“I did?” he says hesitantly, which is valid because he did nothing of the sort.

“Yes, and we wondered if today was a good day, seeing as it’s such miserable weather,” Blue says.

“Oh. Of course, yes.” He’s obviously a polite man, which is destined to be his fatal flaw when dealing with Blue who’s on a determined course and has never met a fib he doesn’t like. He looks over at me. “So, you’re both fans of old houses?”

I nod. “Absolutely. We have a Georgian house in York. We renovated it from a wreck.”

“Wish I could do the same,” he says wryly. “But a house this old and this size is like the Forth Bridge. I barely get to one end of it before I have to turn around and start at the beginning again.”

“Sorry,” I say.

He smiles. “No need. The old place is like a family member. Just one of those that always demands a lot of attention.” He sets the trowel down in the weeds. “I’d love to show you the house. The weather’s getting too bad now to garden.”

“It’s a big job,” I say, looking around.

“Yes. There used to be ten gardeners here in the old days, but now it’s just me and two of the local lads. Most of the gardeners tend to gravitate towards the National Trust properties around here.”

“I suppose it’s the cheese scones,” Blue says thoughtfully.

I took him to an old historical property near us last summer, because I wanted to get some inspiration for a comic featuring a gothic building. The scones obviously made a deeper impression on him than the building.

“One should never discount those,” Lord St Claire says, his eyes twinkling.

“Well, the gardens are very pretty.” It’s not a lie. They have a wild beauty to them which perfectly suits the backdrop of the turbulent sea. My fingers itch to draw the view, and already an idea is stirring about an adventure for Blue, Psychic Detective.