'What? What does that mean?'

'It's a-'

'Saying?'

'Right. Bye! See you Monday.' And Ted leant over, pulled the door shut, and drove off.

Approaching Pearce Pyper's house up the long gravel drive in the dusk, Israel was immediately struck by what appeared to be examples of very, very bad decommissioned public art: large chunks of painted concrete lined the driveway, like giant discarded baubles, and there were also driftwood sculptures, resembling large, soft, melted Greek statues, and then closer towards the house were what appeared to be wonky totem poles set at intervals along the driveway, their wings and arms outstretched in welcome and benediction, bulbous, beastly heads nodding at the visitor's approach. It was like walking into a Native American reservation, except the totem poles seemed to have been crafted out of old railway sleepers rather than giant native sequoias, and fixed together with carriage bolts, and screws and nails, and painted with thick exterior gloss. The trees that flanked these curious, echt sculptures had been variously pleached, espaliered and cordoned, giving them the appearance of having been shaped out of old scraps of tanalised timber rather than having actually grown up naturally from the earth.

If the approach to the house was a little unusual, the house itself, when Israel finally reached it, was in comparison a welcome reassurance and really only in the mildest degree eccentric: an example of the late nineteenth-century baronial extended and renovated by someone with an interest in thirteenth-century Moorish palaces, and the Arts and Crafts movement, and Le Corbusier, and fretwork DIY. There was much use of rusted metal and carved oak, and palm trees, and concrete-rendered empty space. What was amazing was that it worked, after a fashion. It was a house that seemed to reflect the inner workings of a human mind, and the gardens surrounding the house did the same: there was black bamboo growing out of huge concrete boulders; and giant carved heads set with gaping mouths, half human, and half Wotan, spitting out ivy; and dozens of topiaried shrubs, perfect little nymphs and huntsmen and hares cavorting along the tops of hedges and the lawn in a shrubby kind of dance; and huge mosaic containers shaped like women bearing mosaic containers shaped like women bearing mosaic containers; and a pond shaped like a DNA double helix, its surface brilliant with algae. There was richness of colour and variety everywhere you looked, and over-sized, frivolous, brilliant plants, and for all the apparent chaos Israel had to admit it was one of the most beautiful, composed gardens he had ever seen: it was a pure act of human wilfulness and exuberance; it was the work of an artist.

Israel pulled at the big chain doorbell at the front door, which rang ominously. The big oak door was open, and there were cardboard boxes piled up inside the hall. But no one came. So Israel called out.

'Hello? Hello? Anybody in?'

He didn't like this at all: calling unannounced at people's houses with Ted he'd found difficult enough; it seemed like bad manners. Back in London, if you wanted to see someone you texted or rang at least a week in advance and left a message on their mobile. Turning up at people's houses on spec in a beaten-up old van with Ted to collect library books was not what he'd imagined he'd be doing when he took on the job in Tumdrum: he felt like a book-vigilante, which is exactly how they'd been treated on some calls. Some places they'd gone to collect the books, children had been sent to answer the door.

'My mum's not in,' the little children would say, although you could clearly see their mums hiding in the kitchen, or in the front room, watching the telly.

'Tell your mum I'm no' the tick man or the coal man,' Ted would say. 'I'm from the library.'

It didn't look as though that approach was going to work on this occasion though, because there was no one around at all. The only sign of recent human activity seemed to be the cardboard boxes in the hall, and a Volvo estate parked outside the house.

Israel stepped cautiously across the threshold and cleared his throat.

'Hello?' he said, sticking his head forward, his voice growing weaker in the quiet. 'Excuse me? Anybody about?'

His voice echoed and the house remained silent, completely deserted apart from all the fine furniture, and the paintings on the walls, and the vast rugs on the terracotta floors, and ornaments and objets d'art stuffed in cabinets and on plinths and in recesses and cubby-holes.

A black retriever and a white Persian cat appeared in the hallway from behind the cardboard boxes, regarded Israel slowly and with animal disinterest, and then walked on by, out of the front door and down into the garden.

'Hello? Hello?'

Now he'd entered the house he figured he might as well keep going, and so he slowly made his way through the hall and down a corridor, past doors and double doors, calling as he went, and eventually he came through to a vast kitchen painted an electric yellow, with black and white chequerboard tiles, and there, outside the kitchen window, with views out across a small orchard, he saw a motionless human figure, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

'Hello?' called Israel, extremely faintly now, his heart beating like a little bird's. 'Hello?' The figure did not respond. Israel gulped and began to walk across the kitchen, his brown brogues clicking accusingly across the floor, through the utility room full of wellington boots and Barbours, and outside.

It was a long terrace at the back of the house. The dark, motionless, stooped figure that Israel had seen inside turned out to be an elderly man standing at a long wooden workbench. He was wearing a trilby hat, and a boiler suit over a three-piece suit, and he was working very slowly and with deep concentration with what looked like a cooking spatula, shaping and moulding a concrete bust, like one of the huge heads Israel had seen in the garden.

'Hello?' said Israel uncertainly.

'Ah. Yes. Good,' said the old man, snapping out of his reverie, and turning round and smiling warmly, his bright blue eyes sparkling, as if he were expecting him. 'Good. Ah. You're not Bullimore?'

'No. Sorry.'

'I thought you were Bullimore.' The man waved the concrete-covered spatula at Israel.

'No, I'm not.' Israel had no idea who Bullimore was.

'You're not with Bullimore?'

'No.'

'So you are?'

'Israel Armstrong. I'm the new librarian.'

'Ah, the new librarian. Marvellous. Can't shake hands, I'm afraid. Covered in stuff.' He wiped his hands on his boiler suit. 'Chairman Mao was a librarian, did you know?'

'Yes.'

'Would have been better off sticking to it, really.'

'Yes.'

'Would have saved the world a lot of trouble.'

'Er.'

'And Hitler was an artist.'

'…'

'Not sure about Stalin. What was he?'

'Erm. I'm not sure.'

'Pipe-smoker, anyway. Never to be trusted. Don't smoke a pipe yourself?'

'No.'

'Good. Always worth asking. Now, I've heard a lot about you.'

'You have?'

'Oh yes. You know, small town. Word gets around. Great write-up you had in the paper.'

'Thank you.'

'You're settling in OK?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Excellent. Well, very nice of you to come out and see us.'

'That's all right. You are…?'

'Sorry, forgive me. Awfully ill-mannered. I'm Pearce Pyper, widower of this parish.'

'Right.'

'Now, by your accent I detect that you're not from here, Israel, is that right?'

'Yes. I'm from London, actually.'

'Ah. Yes. That's right. I remember. It was in the paper. Us outsiders must stick together, you know. I'm a Cork man originally myself-long time ago, of course. Rebel Cork!'

'Right.'

'Lot of nonsense. Anyway, where exactly in London are you from? Big place, London, or at least it was the last time I was there.'