The morning rain was easing into a steady autumn drizzle on the windshield.

The county building was made of dark gray limestone, with brass double doors at the front entrance.

Inside, the air smelled of wet coats, old paper and floor wax.

Arthur, the senior title clerk, stood behind a tall marble counter near the land registry vault.

He nudged his thick wire-rimmed spectacles up with his thumb as we approached.

“Margaret,” Arthur said.

“I’ve pulled the physical parcel folder you asked for.”