They were made of iron, big and old-fashioned—the largest of them most likely the key to the front door. I brushed them off even though they weren’t dirty, but because the thought of the lunatic real estate agent having even touched them was offensive to me at that moment. I tucked the keys in my pocket and trudged down the hill through the trees and underbrush to the water. The path was overgrown, but there was evidence to indicate that the various tradesmen who had been engaged by Mrs. Fowler at the previous owners’ behest had used it lately. The ground was compacted where feet had walked. In any case, the path could only go in one direction: down toward the water and the dock. As I walked, I made a mental note to send an email to the family in England about the real estate agent’s horrendous and unprofessional behaviour, but even as I thought it, I dismissed it. There wouldn’t be any point. Caveat emptor. They had my money and the house was mine, lock, stock, and barrel.
