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edible.’
    â€˜But the honey’s most definitely yours,’ said Martin, helping himself. It was distinctively pale and scented, made by her bees from the nectar of the blossom of the lime trees that surrounded Fodderstone Green. ‘And I’m not sharing it with you ,’ he added, swatting away a hovering wasp. He licked a smear of honey from his finger. ‘This is much too good to waste. How many pounds did you take this year, Aunt Con?’
    â€˜None at all. Didn’t I mention it in a letter? I was sure I’d told you … I sold my hives in the spring.’
    He looked at her in surprise. ‘No, I’d no idea. You’ve always been so fond of your bees.’
    â€˜Yes. But they’re an awful lot of work, you know. And when I had to have Emma put down in March, I somehow lost the heart for it.’
    Emma, a golden labrador, had been Con’s companion throughout her retirement. Even to Martin, an infrequent visitor, the cottage seemed empty without the dog; as soon as he entered he had missed the click of her nails on the floorboards. And now, at tea-time, he recalled the way she used to come and lean against his legs, gazing up at him soulfully in the hope that he would give her a lick of honey.
    â€˜She was a beautiful creature,’ he said.
    Con nodded. ‘That was a very kind and understanding note you sent me at the time. Jolly nice of you, Martin. I did appreciate it.’
    â€˜Well, I remember how I felt when my poor old beagle had to be put down, not long after Dad died. I wanted to have another dog, but I couldn’t because of being away at school. What about you, though – are you planning to buy a pup? A different breed, perhaps?’
    â€˜No.’ Con poured him another cup of tea, absent-mindedly adding both milk and sugar. Martin never took sugar (or ate honey, except to please his aunt) but he drank it without complaint.
    â€˜No,’ she continued, ‘I did think about getting a puppy, but I won’t. The fact is, Martin, I’ve decided not to stay here another winter. I’m fond of the old cottage, but it’s frightfully draughty and inconvenient. And the garden’s much too big for me to cope with now. I’ve been happy here, but I feel I’ve had enough.’
    From the look of her, he thought, that was obvious. She usually liked hot weather but now she seemed distressed by the heat. Was she ill, he wondered? But it wasn’t a question he could ever put to her. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him in her own way and her own time.
    â€˜I should jolly well think you have had enough of Fodderstone,’ he said heartily. Con’s idiom was catching. ‘I’ve always enjoyed coming here to see you, but there’s something – I don’t know what – odd about the place. And it’s so isolated. It’ll be much better for you to move into a small town, somewhere near the shops and a library and, er, dentists and so on. Have you decided yet where you want to live?’
    Con lifted the lid of the teapot and peered vaguely at its contents. ‘Oh … Woodbridge, perhaps. Or Aldeburgh …’
    â€˜Good idea. There’s plenty of property on the market, so you should have no problem in finding somewhere suitable. All the same, you’ll need to start viewing right away if you want to be out of here before the winter. Look, why don’t we go on a house-hunting expedition together, one day this week?’
    â€˜Oh, no. Jolly nice of you, Martin, but you’ve come here to fly your aeroplane. No, I can house-hunt by myself, after your holiday.’
    â€˜Well, the offer’s there if you change your mind. And we can at least look at the East Anglian Daily Press and see what’s advertised. What are you thinking of buying – a modern house? Or a bungalow? Or a flat?’
    â€˜Somewhere very small,’ said Con. ‘And that’s a thing I