It was just before midnight, a chilly November night, and swirling mists concealed parts of the dark, narrow, rural road among trees in South Wales, not far from the Bristol Channel from where a foghorn sounded mournfully and rhythmically every few minutes. Every now and then, you could hear the distant howl of a dog and the melancholy call of a night bird. The few houses along the road, which was little better than an alley, were half a mile apart from each other. At one of the darkest spots, the road turned, passing by a fine, three-story building that rose behind its large garden, and at that point, there was a car whose front wheels had become stuck in a ditch at the side of the road.
After two or three attempts to reverse and get out of the ditch, the driver of the car must have decided it was pointless to persist, and the engine fell silent. A minute or two passed before the driver got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. He was a somewhat sturdy man with blond hair, about thirty-five years old, with the appearance of a country man, wearing a rough tweed suit, a black overcoat, and a hat. With a flashlight to see the road, he began to walk carefully on the grass toward the house, stopping halfway to examine the elegant facade of the eighteenth-century building.