The entrance hall was low ceilinged, made lower by the original roof beams that crossed it. There was a staircase with bare wooden risers varnished a dark brown leading upstairs, a square archway into what I learnt later was called the snug, with a real fireplace, old leather furniture and the sort of worn throw rug that really needed to have an Irish wolfhound curled up asleep on it.

I glanced at the staircase and Guleed took up the cue – asking whether we could see Christina’s room first. Mr Chorley was welcome to supervise, she said, although in reality we were both hoping he didn’t.

In the end he led us upstairs to the first floor where the hallways were covered in a thick cream carpet that must have been a bugger to clean.

‘She pretty much had the run of this floor,’ he said, although officially the main bedroom with its en-suite was hers and the other rooms were for guests. Then he left us to it, thank god, and said that when we were finished there was coffee in the kitchen.

The main bedroom and bathroom were far too neat, the modern reproduction brass bed was neatly made, a ghastly pink vanity and matching wardrobe had their drawers closed and when we opened them to look inside we found the clothes neatly folded – even the underwear. Guleed tutted. The room had been practically scrubbed clean, probably since Christina’s death. That was odd. Grieving parents often put off making any changes to a lost child’s things. But grief smacks everyone in the face in a different way, so I didn’t read anything into it.

There was no school work – presumably that had all been in her dorm room back at St Paul’s – but there was an interesting collection of books. Lots of YA in the American ‘drown the sister’ school of social realism, plus various Malorie Blackmans, Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle and Land of Laughs by Jonathan Carroll.

‘A bit more Goth than I was expecting,’ said Guleed, and I remembered that we’d collared Reynard in that Gothic paradise in Archway. Perhaps that’s what they had in common.

There was nothing under the bed, inserted into the mattress or taped into an envelope under the knicker drawer. The lone stuffed animal propping up the headboard had no suspicious lumps, zips or loose seams, and valuable seventeenth century magical artefacts were definitely not lodged under any loose floorboards.

We widened our search, softly stepping out into the corridor and moving as quietly as possible into the bathrooms and guest bedrooms. It’s not that we were creeping about, but we figured what Mr Chorley didn’t hear us doing wouldn’t worry him – us police are thoughtful that way.