Evergreen trees, tall, elegant imposters of guards, stood forbiddingly, at the entrance to the sprawling Tudor house.
We drove to the right of the house where a niche created out of way parking.
This mausoleum of “olde english” with its glass windows staring unblinkingly at all who enter would give anyone the creeps.
The door was opened immmediately by a wizened character who ushered us into the sitting room.
A huge open fire was the only warmth emanating from the interior. In front of the fire stood the son of the demagogue “Hitler”.