There was no answer. Several more doors led off from the dining hall, including a big one that she guessed went to the kitchens, but there was no sound of movement or conversation from any of them. Still feeling a bit like Goldilocks trespassing in the bears’ house, but unable to ignore the rumbles from her stomach any longer, Alice took a seat and lifted the covers.

She revealed a breakfast that wouldn’t have been out of place at the Ritz. In addition to the bacon, there were thick slices of ham, swimming in juice, and big plates of hashed potatoes, toast, and scrambled eggs with bits of green stuff she couldn’t identify. Alice loaded her plate with a bit of everything, then looked up instinctively for her father, expecting one of his gentle admonishments. He always said that no one likes a pig at mealtimes.

The room was still empty, of course. Alice’s throat went tight, and she felt like something was rattling around loose in her chest. She wanted to cry, to let the feeling out, but the tears wouldn’t come. After a moment she attacked the ham with knife and fork, making a bit of a mess of it and daring anyone to complain.

When she’d eaten her fill, and truth be told a little extra, she pushed her chair back from the table and got to her feet. The big house was still as quiet as a graveyard, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that something was watching her, and so she spoke aloud again.

‘Should I take the dishes in myself?’

It was something she’d learned to do in the past few years. After her father had had to let the maids go, he’d told her it was too hard on poor Mrs Voule to expect her to cook and clean, so they’d done the washing-up together, her father with his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows.

There was plenty of food left, though, and she didn’t think she ought to just throw it all away. Alice went to the kitchen door and put her hand against it, pushing it inward just a crack.

‘Hello?’ she said, more quietly. ‘What should I do with the rest of this?’

When there was no answer, she opened the door all the way. The kitchen made the one in her father’s house look tiny. There was a long central counter, spotlessly clean, and a row of shelves with plates, bowls, dishes and tureens all stacked in regimented ranks. Against the other wall was a bank of stoves and ovens that looked big enough to handle a cow all at once. They were clean too, every burner scraped free of grime and even the metal frames polished to a dull sheen. Another door, with a heavy dead bolt, led onto the back yard, and there was a corridor Alice guessed led to a pantry.