Then there were some men and women in the elaborate dress of the eighteenth century; a couple of rather dandyish ones from the nineteenth; and then photographs of sombre men and ladies in black and white.

Tom recognised his grandfather and grandmother, posed formally. Underneath was a photograph of Tom with his own parents, showing him standing, smiling. He did not recognise the background, which seemed to be a park; but he did recognise the dress his mother was wearing, red with yellow polka dots, and his father in an open white shirt and ironed cream slacks.

He wondered how James had acquired it. Had his mother and father sent it to him? Had they known this James? Tom didn’t think it possible. He didn’t remember them sending cards to any James Swinton at Christmas.

From somewhere he thought he could hear gentle music playing; it was probably Zita, shut up in her room.

What was he doing here? He’d come because of a letter, because of the boy that had brought a letter to him, because of the warning that strange man had given him. But was this freedom?

He looked out of the window onto the lawn below, which was sprouting weeds. The lurcher was sniffing at something near the moat; but otherwise there was nobody in sight. What was he getting into? He looked around the library, the dust, the boring books.

This was ridiculous. He would go back to school, and face Fletch. He would be able to find a way to deal with him. He’d be able to get into the town and return to normal life, whatever that was.

He managed to find his room and began throwing things into his so recently unpacked bag.

He had just zipped it up when the door opened. Zita was poised in the frame. She didn’t comment on the bag, but her lip curled and her eyes narrowed.

Tom deflated immediately.

‘Thinking of skipping the joint?’ she said, slowly unwinding a red silk scarf from around her neck. ‘He wants to see you.’

Tom knew that she didn’t mean Kit.

Zita sauntered ahead of him a few paces down a corridor he was sure he hadn’t noticed before and flung open a thick wooden door.

‘In there. Come and find me when you’re finished.’

‘How …?’

‘I’m not easy to miss.’

She all but pushed him through the door, and then he was fully in the room, the door closing behind him.

Silence muffled him. It wasn’t the study he’d seen before, book-lined, with that strange glass box or sculpture hanging from the centre. This was a smaller space, more bare, with a couple of tapestried chairs. There was an odd smell, slightly earthy. It was gloomy and overwarm. The fire was lit.