The grandfather clock chimed two as the man made his way along the empty corridor towards the back staircase. Dust danced on the moonbeams that shone through the window at the end of the hall, lighting his path. Somewhere in the inky darkness outside a beast howled, but the house and its occupants slept on.

When he reached the ground floor, the man entered the disused kitchen. He passed the ancient cooker and empty cupboards and went through the butler’s pantry to a locked door. He fumbled about in his dressing-gown pocket, retrieved a key and turned it in the lock. Then he closed the door behind him, pressed the button on the tiny torch in his other hand and walked down, down, down until another door blocked his path. This one required a different key. A moment later, safely on the other side, he flicked the switch on the wall.

A golden glow lit the space around him.

‘Good evening, Sidney.’ He nodded at the polar bear. The giant taxidermied beast stood guard over a jumble of antiques and household goods that had long ago been banished to the cellars. The man wove his way through the cast-offs, acknowledging several more trophy creatures. In the far corner of the room he pulled aside a thick black curtain to reveal a large metal door. With his glasses perched on the tip of his nose, he leaned down and turned the circular lock, listening for the clicks. One, eight, six, four. As he pulled on the handle, a blast of cool air escaped. He reached around and flicked a switch, then waited as a bank of fluorescent lights stuttered to life.

Inside, the vault walls were a jigsaw of paintings in heavily gilded frames. On the floor, rows upon rows of V-shaped racks contained yet more, smaller treasures. He shuffled past several racks before something caught his eye. He wondered why it seemed so out of place. His once-sharp memories often felt as blurred as the Impressionist landscapes he loved so much, but surely this was just his weary mind playing tricks. He shook his head, trying to focus, then looked across and spotted what he was searching for.

He lifted the painting out and propped it on the lone easel in the room.

The folding chair was hidden in an alcove, just as he’d left it. With its faded stripes and worn seat, its picnic days were a distant memory. He positioned the chair in front of the painting then sat down and stared into the glowing canvas. JMW Turner’s landscapes had always been his favourite.

He pulled a chocolate from his pocket and slowly peeled the golden wrapper. As he popped the confection into his mouth, he didn’t notice the foil flutter to the floor.

Minutes became an hour and the alarm on his watch beeped. He returned the chair to its original position and the painting to its rack.

Back in the cellar, he pulled the vault door and spun the dial, then retraced his steps up to the butler’s pantry, locking the doors behind him. He stepped carefully across the kitchen flagstones, climbed the back stairs, and walked silently to his apartment, avoiding the squeaky floor boards that might rouse his slumbering neighbours. Then he climbed into bed and fell into a deep, deep sleep.