‘Blimey, awfully Brideshead,’ Miles muttered, as he steered the car round the circular pond, a moss-covered fountain fashioned in the shape of a young boy blowing a horn placed at the centre.

‘But ugly, don’t you think? Late Victorian, I’d reckon,’ Jazz said, looking up at the square, red-brick building. The many windows glinted blindly, the roof lined with gargoyles, their menacing faces now chipped and misshapen. ‘Perfect setting for a gothic horror film.’

‘Put it this way: the heating bills must be pretty steep,’ Miles joked as they climbed the steps to the front door and Jazz pressed the bell. Above it was a rusted plaque stating Tradesmen to the rear.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman in a black dress appeared.

‘Good morning. DI Hunter and DS Miles to see Lord Conaught,’ said Jazz.

‘Come this way, please.’ The woman nodded as they stepped into an austere, lofty entrance hall, the ageing chequered marble floor stretching into the distance. Jazz shivered as she followed the woman out of the hall and along a maze of dark corridors. It was colder inside than out.

They stopped in front of a heavy oak door and the woman turned to them.

‘I’ve explained to Lord Conaught that you wish to speak to him, but he’s not a well man. He had a fall from his hunter a couple of years back and is in a wheelchair. Arthritis has set in and he suffers a lot of pain. He also had a family bereavement very recently,’ added the woman.

‘We won’t be long, I promise,’ said Jazz.

The woman nodded and knocked on the door.

‘Come.’

The woman opened the door to let them in.

As she stepped inside, Jazz noticed the starkness of the rest of the house was in deep contrast to the cosy, oak-panelled room she now found herself in. There were colourful hunting cartoons lining the walls, a worn tartan carpet on the floor and a roaring fire burning merrily in the grate. On either side of the fireplace, books spilled untidily from floor-to-ceiling shelves. The room smelled of damp dog, a specimen of which was lying basking in the warmth in front of the fire.

Edward Conaught was sitting in a wheelchair to one side of the fireplace, a copy of the Telegraph placed on his knee. There was a table next to him, piled with dog-eared copies of Country Life and bottles of pills.

He smiled up at them wearily and stretched out his hand.

‘Edward Conaught. Pleasure to meet you. Please sit down.’

He indicated the old sofa, covered in dog hairs, and turned his wheelchair around to face them.

‘I’ve no idea why you should be calling on me. Not in any trouble, am I? Some hope, these days,’ he chuckled.

‘No, Lord Conaught, there’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Please, call me Edward. So tell me, how can I help you?’

‘It’s regarding your brother, Corin,’ said Jazz.

Edward’s face clouded. ‘But he’s dead. Has been for some forty years, poor chap.’