‘God, look at all this!’ Will was gazing around the yard. An old mangle stood in one corner, its rollers, once bleached white by constant washing, now split and covered in green moss and greyish mildew. There were old brass pans heaped together around the iron legs of the mangle, and a pile of rusting pieces of gardening equipment spilled out over the stone paving. The skeletal remains of a small boat leaned drunkenly against the garden wall and some equally decayed lobster pots rotted quietly beside the outside privy.

‘All Isaac’s things,’ Matt said. ‘I remember when that boat used to be moored out on the other side of the sluice. His mother used to come out here every week to do his washing for him. I can still picture the old woman all dressed in black and with her sleeves rolled up, passing the sheets through that mangle. She had muscles on her forearms like a brickie’s hod carrier. I was a bit scared of Isaac, but that was nothing compared to my fear of his mother.’ Matt grinned at Will. ‘The local children said she was a witch. She was covered in what looked like warts, although no one had the courage to get close enough to see for sure. Now I realise that the poor woman suffered from some dreadful skin complaint. No wonder she shouted and swore at the little horrors who were always pointing at her and calling her names.’

They hunted around the yard, looking for anything that shouldn’t be there, anything that might relate to Sophie.

‘I’ve no doubt the CID team have thoroughly checked the contents of Grove’s computer,’ Matt said, ‘but all the same, I would dearly love to get the chance to see for myself what he has on it.’

Their external search of the cottage, and that of the constable, yielded nothing, so with the sky darkening by the minute, they made their way back down Tylers Lane towards Emilia Swain’s place.

Little Anchor had a lonely and uninhabited air. Matt picked up a few letters from the doormat and they gave the cottage a cursory check. Nothing appeared to have been touched. Dust was gathering on the furniture and the old lady’s collection of brass on the fireplace had taken on a dull, uncared-for look. Matt was glad that she hadn’t come back, but he couldn’t help being sorry that the homely cottage was beginning to resemble Miss Havisham’s boudoir.

Back outside, Matt said, ‘Look at those clouds. We’d better get back to the house before the heavens open.’

Will glanced up at the gathering thunder clouds and nodded. ‘We can either run the gauntlet of the press, or double back out on to the fen and take the cattle track up to Holland House. What do you reckon?’