Alice continues to study the photos, mesmerised, her eyes falling on a black and white head and shoulders photograph of a child of about four with short dark hair. It looks out of place amongst the pictures of Felix Flynn. ‘Who’s this?’ she says, coming over a bit faint, placing her hand on the wall for support.

‘Probably one of Felix’s children,’ Christine says, placing her finger on her chin. ‘He had a daughter, Verity, and a son, Hugh. There’s a portrait of the son in the dining room, painted by his sister.’

Hugh Flynn? It couldn’t be of her father.

‘Did Hugh Flynn live here?’ Alice asks.

‘I believe so.’ She’s looking at her notes, fumbling. ‘The original owner, Felix Flynn, disappeared forty years ago,’ she explains to everyone.

‘Where are Hugh and Verity Flynn now?’ Lori asks.

Christine shrugs, raking through her notes once more. ‘I’m afraid I have no idea. It says nothing here.’

Alice’s head swims. Was Hugh her father, and had he changed his name? But why would he? And he didn’t have a sister that she knew of. He’d kept things from Alice, that much was true – but surely nothing this huge. Tears sting behind her eyes. He never told her who her mother was, or anything about her early life. What’s to have stopped him hiding a whole lot more?

‘Did you see the portrait in the restaurant? The one I sent you?’ Faith asks, suddenly beside Alice, moving in close to her ear.

‘Mmm.’

‘It looks so like your dad, don’t you think?’

Tears are nearing the surface. Her father is so clear in her mind it’s as though he’s standing right beside her. Go home, Alice.

‘This doesn’t look like Hugh or Verity to me,’ Lori says, moving closer to the photograph of the dark-haired child.

‘You knew them?’ Alice says, running her hand across the back of her neck.

‘A very long time ago.’ Her eyes fix on a photo of Felix Flynn. ‘Their father was an awful man.’ Lori takes out an inhaler from her bag and shakes it. ‘Oh dear, I’m almost out. I’ll need to get the spare from my room.’

‘Christine!’ Everyone turns. It’s Dane Winslow standing at the top of the stairs, topless, baring his muscular body with obvious pride. ‘We were promised champagne and canapés.’

She looks up at him. ‘Yes … yes, of course. They’re in the fridge. I’ll bring them up after the tour.’

He folds his arms high across his toned chest. ‘Now would be good.’

Christine takes off her glasses, rubs her eyes with her fingertips. ‘Well—’

‘I’m happy to wait if you need to get them, Christine,’ Lori says. ‘I should probably grab my spare inhaler from my room anyway.’