Steepletops – or what remained of it – had been a large-ish modern house not far from Chichester. New money, not an ancestral pile, with vulgar gateposts that had once been topped by stone eagles. I guessed it would have had something like ten bedrooms back in the day, had it not been lying in ruins. The outer wall of the garden was crumbling away in places, and the fence that replaced it was sagging, neglected. A sign ordered no trespass, but it was so worn away I hardly believed anyone would care. Who owned it anyway – likely not Nora? She had mentioned a few times that money was tight for her, so surely she would have sold the land if she’d still had a stake in it. We parked in a lay-by. ‘The gates are locked,’ said Dr Holt, glancing at the large iron ones, so dilapidated that the padlock on them was hardly effective. ‘We can’t get in.’

I gave him a look and opened the jeep door, stepped down and over the sagging fence in one bound. He followed, reluctant.

‘Trespass is illegal, just so you know.’

‘There’s no one here!’ I said, and it was true. ‘Come on, live a little.’

‘I’ll have you know I live a lot,’ he grumbled, climbing awkwardly over. I found myself smiling, and quickly wiped it from my face. There was nothing to smile about here.

You could just about discern the remnants of what had been a sizeable house. Red brick, large mullioned windows (I was still upset Nick had pulled out the ones in the cottage to replace them with high-tech versions) almost destroyed.

‘What happened here?’

A cold wind blew through the site, and I huddled my coat round me.

‘I don’t know.’ Dr Holt was uneasy. ‘Since we’re already breaking the law, I guess we should go and look.’

The answer was clear when we got nearer. The inside of the house was blackened like the bottom of my Aga. ‘A fire.’

‘Looks that way, yes.’ He took out his phone, holding it up in the manner of a druid divining for water. ‘No reception.’

It was then that a small, yappy terrier ran up, barking round my ankles. I thought of poor Poppet, lost God knows where.

‘Alfie! Silly boy, come here!’ A woman ran up, puffing, wearing an expression of canine-related embarrassment that I recognised from myself. ‘Sorry.’

A dog walker. She wore a gilet and sensible shoes, possibly bought from the back of the Radio Times. She looked between us. ‘You don’t mind, do you? It’s the best dog-walking spot around.’

Dr Holt and I exchanged glances. She must have thought we were something official, based on how we were staring at the house. I thought fast. ‘No problem. Maybe you can fill us in on a few details? We’re looking to develop the site, but the info’s a bit patchy. What happened, a fire?’