I inched very carefully across the roof as I left my dormer behind. After only several feet, it became clear the pitch of the roof was, in fact, awfully dangerous. Once well out onto the roof, I dropped to my stomach, spread eagle, hugging the slates. My overriding fear was the risk of sliding down the roof towards the gutters. Blessedly, one of my sneakers snagged yet another nail. It was then Jock realized how truly exposed I was to danger.

The two men in the car were dressed in suits, wearing fedoras. As they got out they introduced themselves as F.B.I agents. They told Dad they had been instructed to take our nanny away.

Our new American home was a grand, Tudor style, brick house with a slate roof, leaded windows, and several large fireplaces. To me, a three year old, the house always seemed dark. Outside, however, its extensive gardens and green lawns were further enhanced by tall oaks, giant rhododendron bushes and a stylish fish pond.