When Martin went back to the house, he noticed that the hue and expression on Edith's face had transformed from pink and livid, to deathly pale and deeply suspicious.

"What in God's name is going on Ellingham?" She said, her mouth an angry red slash.

He squared his shoulders and looked down at her.

"I could ask you the same thing." He said haughtily. "You still haven't told me why you are here."

"Never mind why I am here, why are the police here?" She spat. "Is it because of that feeble-minded guttersnipe that you and your aunt can't can't help fawning over? Thinking of starting your own reform school?"

Edith paused dramatically. "Oh my god, I do hope my purse is safe upstairs." she added, maliciously.

Martin stared at her with distaste. Perhaps this was going to be a lot easier than he'd imagined; how had he never noticed how truly repugnant Edith was? He knew then that, had he been the type to apologise, he would have owed Chris Parsons a rather sincere one; Chris was clearly a more astute judge of character than Martin had ever given him credit for.

Edith stared back at him, her mind working furiously. Never one to hide his displeasure, the expression on his face registered like a stinging, wet slap to her cheek, and she felt her heart pounding inside the bony walls of her thin chest.

God! Ellingham was obtuse, she thought bitterly. It clearly hadn't dawned on him that the girl was merely part of the great unwashed, the detestable criminal classes; cretinous, uninspiring and uncouth. And, as for the graceless way she spoke, well there was probably some level of retardation there. All poor children were probably born with some degree of Foetal Alcohol Syndrome she surmised, and it was all very well feeling sorry for her but, truth be told, she was probably preparing to rob them as they slept.

"I think we'd be safer if we found a hotel to stay in." She said, lowering her voice and deliberately adding a note of fear. "If you could just take your rose-coloured glasses off for a brief moment, then you'd be just as alarmed as I."

Martin curled his lip. With the late afternoon sun on Edith's face, he observed how heavily her face powder sat on the fine hairs of her face, and how her lipstick was ever so slightly bleeding upwards from her thin, wide upper lip; he wondered why he had never before felt disgusted by her supercilious expression and how she exuded an air of meanness and contempt. It must always have been there, he thought, but I have been so amaurotic.

"Edith, spare me the theatrics." He said, cuttingly. "If you want to stay in a hotel, feel free to leave. But I am staying here, with my aunt, as I always intended."

He turned sideways, ducked his head, and forced his way past her and into the porch. He felt her clutch at his arm but he shrugged her off roughly and kept walking; through the kitchen and past his bemused, but silent aunt and a worried-looking Louisa, who both loitered awkwardly around the sink. Taking the stairs three at time, he charged up the hallway and into his bedroom, flinging the door closed behind him. He knew that Edith would be just behind him; that she had a pathological need of the upper hand, and would have already thought of several angles from which to badger him until he relented. He also realised that she had nowhere else to go; sitting downstairs and making polite conversation with people she had not the slightest interest in was never her thing so she was bound to hunt him down as quickly as she could. All he could do was try and be ready for her. He threw his overnight bag on to the bed and began to place his belongings into it, as hastily as his penchant for neatness allowed.

Martin was just securing his case as she barged through the door. He glanced up at her quickly but did not speak because, other than to shout at her to go away, he had little idea of what to say. He had a vague hope that if he were rude and objectionable enough, she would tire of him and leave of her own volition. Upon reflection he supposed it was rather a cowardly option but, in truth, he couldn't think of any other way to proceed and, as he reasoned pragmatically, it was a strategy that had served him quite well since his adolescence.

"What are you doing?" She snapped.

Martin pulled himself up straight and looked down on her, struggling to disguise the contempt in his voice.

"You may have the room to yourself." he said coldly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ellingham. I came all this way to spend time with you."

Edith took a step towards him and, instantly, her face took on a sultry expression.

"Could be fun." She said, reaching out her arm and attempting to run her hand down his chest. "I might let you make it up to me..."

Martin stepped to one side, and inclined his torso away from her outstretched hand. He became aware, with some relief, that he felt absolutely no temptation and, from that realisation, he finally found some courage.

"I have no interest in making anything up to you." He said coldly. "In fact, nothing could be further from my mind."

"What on earth has got into you?" Edith replied, equally as coolly. "Does your totally unreasonable reaction stem from my attempt at a pleasant surprise? The fact I went to the trouble of finding you? And coming all this way, to this godforsaken place, thinking you'd be pleased to see me? Really Ellingham, this is exceptionally rude and ungrateful behaviour, even by your miserable standards."

Martin looked at her sceptically. Whatever her reasons for chasing him all the way down to Cornwall, he knew that none of them would have been for his benefit, and her blatant manipulation of the situation left him feeling nauseated.

"How did you find me, Edith? How did you know where I was?"

She glared at him angrily; this was all his fault and he was trying to make her feel badly? Nothing had gone to plan, she'd had an appalling day and now Ellingham was demanding to know what was going on, in the most accusatory manner. It just would not do.

"What difference does it make how I found out? The fact is, I did, I'm here and you are behaving like an absolute brute." She hissed at him furiously. "How do you think I feel, coming all this way, arriving at your secret hideaway only to discover that you are have some sort of Lolita thing going on, falling over yourself for some godawful teenage delinquent? Enabled, I might add, by your hideous aunt!"

And there it was, Martin thought, the final straw. He waited for the red mist, the apoplectic rage, the ferocity of his temper surging as he hit boiling point, however, instead of being triggered, strangely, he felt overcome by an odd sense of calm. He shook his head at her, the disgust he felt showing plainly all over his face, and emanating from his every pore. Picking up his case, and the shoebox containing his clockwork boat, he walked silently from the room.