And then it came to him where they might be – it was quite simple, really.

Hobbes left the room and made his way to the staircase. He went down to the ground floor, where Barlow was just coming in through the back door. He had a torch in his hand.

‘Nothing here, sir. Nothing of interest.’

‘The bins?

‘Emptied out. Recently, from the look of it.’

‘OK. Carry on upstairs. I’ve done the first floor, so start on the floors above. There’s, erm, there’s an attic as well. I’d like to get in there at some point.’

‘You think there are secrets hidden away?’

‘We’ll see.’

Hobbes’s mind was elsewhere. He opened the door that led to the cellar. Walking down the stairs again was like revisiting a dream, an action that wasn’t usually possible, even in sleep, not in such a knowing way. The air was filled with dust, and he could hear tiny sounds, creaking noises, a skittering as something moved away from the light. Probably a mouse. The bare bulb hung low from its fitting and he had to duck his head as he passed through, into the main space of the cellar. The hole in the floor had been filled in, the concrete cleaner and lighter compared to the floor around it. The pile of rubbish lay in a jumble to one side. The words were still written on the wall above the damaged area, urging Adeline to her eternal peaceful rest. And directly below this message lay a small metal box, a copper box. Hobbes knelt down. He could feel that the objects were still inside, hopefully all five of them.

Sheer curiosity had made him open it, as soon as they had realized that the cellar held nothing more than another dress, so he knew the contents. But, then, Nicholas Graves had taken claim of all the things they’d found down here. Hobbes had kept his promise on that. But, crucially, somebody had brought the box back down here and placed it on the site, as near as damn it to the original resting place. Sacred objects returned to the place of worship, was all Hobbes could imagine.

He sealed the box in an evidence bag.

Barlow was moving around on the floor above, and then his footsteps were loud on the cellar stairs, his voice calling, ‘Sir, sir? Where are you?’

‘I’m down here.’ He stood up and moved to the steps. ‘What’s wrong?’

Barlow appeared at the cellar door. ‘I’ve found something. I think you need to take a look.’

Hobbes climbed up to meet him, and together they ascended the stairs to the top floor of the house. They left behind the realm of photographs and entered the realm of mirrors, so many of them. Barlow led the way into a back bedroom. It was the one with the wardrobe, where the extra dresses were stored. No other furniture. A single framed playbill on the wall. But now a dress had been laid out on the bare floorboards. The same dress, of the same colours. But no shoes this time, and no scarf: the dress alone. The tear in the side was visible. But no blood. This was a new specimen. Clean and without creases, no doubt taken from the wardrobe. Hobbes stood in the doorway, reluctant to enter.