There was another article from the eighties in which George’s son rebuffed the allegations, saying they were the word of one disgruntled former friend of his father’s. The case had been closed a lifetime before, and he dismissed the allegations as nothing more than a fantastical, far-fetched vendetta conducted by a left-wing press, hell bent on a discrediting an aristocratic family.

A fuzzy black and white photograph of a fair young man accompanied the story. Poor Riley. By the time Simpson’s accusations had been reported – seventy years after that fateful game of cards – Riley had slipped out of living memory. He was yet another forgotten victim of George’s tyranny. Just like every member of the Mandeville family.

Another photograph of an old man in a ceremonial gown accompanied the article. With his piggy eyes in a wide, flabby face, there was no mistaking who it was. Lou closed her eyes and saw the eyes of a different man looking back at her through the snow-covered trees that morning. How could a man like George Caxton be allowed to make old bones when a man a million times his better had been left to rot in a grave on a battlefield across The Channel? She gripped the page, pulled it free of the rings, and screwed it into a ball.

‘Crikey,’ Will said. He closed the door behind him with his foot and placed two cardboard cups on the desk. Biting the fingers of his gloves, he pulled them free of his hands. ‘I leave you alone for a few minutes, and you trash my file.’ He smiled, and Lou released the sheet of paper.

‘Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’

Will looked at the page. ‘Can’t say I blame you. He was a right royal bastard, wasn’t he? Oh, and I got this for you. A hot chocolate’s too wet without one.’

He pulled a paper bag from his pocket and placed it before Lou. She peered inside. A sob caught in her throat.

‘Oh dear,’ Will said. ‘I’m sorry. I –’

‘It’s ok. It’s just …’ He wasn’t to know that her mum made gingerbread men every Christmas. She had been so wrapped up in the Mandevilles that she hadn’t given her mum a first – let alone a second – thought all day. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she said, getting up too quickly and bashing into the desk.

‘But your hot chocolate,’ Will said, steadying the cups.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Was it something I said?’

‘No. It’s not you. I just … I’m needed …’

‘Will you come back tomorrow? We could do more research.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘After Christmas, then?’

‘I don’t know.’

Will tried to force the file on Lou, saying he had printed it for her.

‘I’m not going straight home,’ she said. Unlike the pad and pencil, she couldn’t shove the file in her pocket. Who knew what would happen to it when she re-crossed the threshold of Hill House.