The only thing in the orangery that could possibly hold any answers to Caro’s secrets is a large footstool, with storage inside. Even though I’m ninety per cent sure it won’t contain anything of interest, I pull up the lid, to reveal a half-sewn cross-stitch pattern, the H and O of HOME embroidered in navy blue, and two photo albums. The sight of the half-finished needlework gives me a pang in my chest as I lift it to one side, imagining Caro sitting in here, stitching it for the house, only for it to be left unfinished. Lifting the albums, I dust off the covers and open one up. The first picture is of Caro and Rupert in a dingy pub. They are young, barely in their twenties and it must have been taken in the Nineties as Rupert is holding a cigarette. I didn’t even know he’d ever smoked. Flicking through, I chart their progress together – graduation days, fancy dress parties, other people’s weddings, their own wedding, and then finally the last photo – a grainy black and white scan picture, Caro’s name and the date at the top. I slam the album closed, not expecting the sharp fingers of hurt that ripple through me. I knew Caro was pregnant when she died, but I just hadn’t ever imagined a real baby.

As I get to my feet, writing off this whole search as a waste of time, I catch sight of the shed at the bottom of the garden. Could there be something in there? It was Caro’s, after all, and she might have left something. Rupert doesn’t go in there, and I’ve never bothered, apart from to fetch the gardening things. Shoving my feet into my trainers I snatch up the key to the padlock and hurry across the damp lawn, not noticing the chill in the air.

As I slide the key into the padlock it turns easily, and I shove my way in through the door, sticking and swollen with damp. The shed is tidy, with the garden tools hanging on nails on the wall, and racking against the far end filled with boxes, all slightly musty-smelling. Brushing aside cobwebs, I reach for the first box and open the flaps, only to find it full of damp, mouldy card beer mats. I vaguely remember Rupert telling me his dad used to collect them for him, so I close the box and place it on the floor and pull the box behind it towards me. This box is newer, with no sign of the damp that has infected the others. A tingle works its way up my spine, and I shiver, tugging the box down and opening it before I can change my mind.