“It will be open for us,” Mr. Gilroy said.

“No, I’m afraid Dierenpark is entirely closed to the public. It has been for the past sixty years.”

“It will be open for us,” Mr. Gilroy repeated, not so gently this time. A note of steel lay beneath the velvet of his voice.

Oh dear, this was going to be awkward. This wouldn’ t be the first group of people disappointed they couldn’t tour the mansion, but it was impossible. The narrow, rutted lane leading up the cliff was treacherous, and even though the Vandermarks had supplied funds to maintain the house and keep it safe from troublemakers, it was in no condition for visitors.

“There’s not much to see,” Sophie hedged. “The crows have taken up residence in the east wing and have a nasty habit of attacking strangers. There are some postcards for sale if you are curious about what the Vandermark mansion looks like up close.”

“Thank you, but we will tour the mansion shortly and have no need of postcards.”

Sophie took a step back. The staff hired to maintain the estate had been walking a fine line for decades, and strangers were almost always discouraged. Almost . . . but not always. Any group that traveled with a butler must be people of means, and Sophie sometimes made exceptions for people willing to pay ridiculous sums to take a peek inside the house. The village needed all the revenue it could get.

“On rare occasions, arrangements can be made for a very select type of visitor,” she said. “It takes some time to arrange, for the estate is never open to visitors who arrive unannounced.” “We’re not visitors,” Mr. Gilroy said in an implacable voice. “We are the Vandermarks. And we’ve come home to stay.”