Is the idyllic vernacular cottage in the woods really what it appears to be? Is anything or anyone? Just who or what is genuine anymore? What's a fake, who's a fake and, oh, who is the genuine murderer? Are all the other beautiful properties: the ancient Cornish manor house; the villa in the south of France just facades, acquired by theft and greed, maybe murder too? Which of your beautiful girlfriends is the murderer, or are you going mad: the memories are not dreams, you are the brutal murderer? Perhaps the answers are all concealed in the stolen book: Vernacular conceit, but then, maybe it is just another fiction. Maybe your father has all the answers, but who is your real father? Can you mother ever be trusted to tell you the truth about anything, or is the genuine truth worse than all the falsehoods? Somehow Bruno finds his way through the maze and finds something he never believed could exist: genuine happiness.