‘It will be nice to meet up with Faith later,’ Alice says as they pass room 1. ‘I hope she’s OK.’ Her eyes fall on a framed poster on the wall, advertising a performance at The London Palladium in September 1960. The man in the picture is in his twenties, dressed in a yellow and blue striped jacket. His black hair oiled back from his forehead.

‘Felix Flynn,’ she says.

Leon nods. ‘The original owner Christine mentioned, the one who disappeared. Looks like he was a magician and a puppeteer.’

She peers closer. Felix Flynn is holding a ventriloquist puppet – an exact replica of himself, down to the yellow and blue striped jacket, and the oiled-back hair. She shivers. ‘I wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.’

‘Nor me.’

They walk on. Find room 2.

‘Faith’s room must be that one,’ she says, pointing down the corridor towards room 4. She heads towards it. Knocks three times. ‘Faith,’ she calls, but there’s no reply.

‘Shall we freshen up, then grab something to eat?’ she says, making her way back.

‘Sounds good to me.’ Leon takes the key from Alice and unlocks the door.

The room is dimly lit, the furnishings much the same as the rest of the house – pale pink and black seems to be Cameron’s favourite colour combination. There’s a full-length mirror, a mahogany four-poster bed and ornate wardrobe.

Rain hits the stunning arched window, black drapes pulled back like curtains at a macabre theatre. Alice moves closer, curves her hand over her eyes as she nears the glass, but the world outside the window is black. She can only imagine the choppy sea crashing against the cliffs.

‘First or second shower?’ she asks, turning to grab her holdall. She throws it onto the bed, and takes off her coat.

‘We could be eating sooner, if we share one.’ Leon smiles, flops down onto a throne-like chair by the window, and splays his long, jean-clad legs.

She rolls her eyes, her mouth curling into a smile.

‘What? You can’t blame a guy for trying.’

She should have known this wouldn’t be easy. Being close to him is painfully hard. There’s only a double bed and the uncomfortable-looking chair. She didn’t think this through.

She unzips her holdall, avoiding his eyes. ‘Do you think the picture will still be here?’

‘I’m guessing if Faith only took the photo yesterday, it will be.’ A beat. He looks concerned. ‘Are you going to be OK, Alice? We could always get something sent to our room tonight.’

‘I’m fine, honestly. I need to see the portrait.’ She takes out an ankle-length, yellow dress that she rolled up like a beach towel when she packed her bag. As she unrolls it, she sees her anti-creasing technique hasn’t worked.

‘I’m going to look a bloody mess this evening if I wear this,’ she says, grabbing her soap bag.