At the same time, clashing, contrasting, another thought surfaced. If he did that, then he would be beholden to Jack. Jack would have something over him. He would be able to let Tom see them, and Tom knew that once he had done so, he would not be able to stop.

For the first time in years, he sobbed, heavy, wracking sobs, and Leana came to him and snuffled her nose into his face, and he lay still, whilst she formed into a tight ball next to his head.

It was no good being like this, he thought, after a while. There was a way forward for him now. A way to break the chains that held everybody together.

It was now past midnight. Everyone was asleep. After a moment or two, he resolved that he would start his search in the cellar. And so he crept downwards. The house was in darkness and he went carefully, so as not to stumble. No music came from Zita’s rooms. Tom realised that he did not know where Kit slept, and the thought held him back for a moment, as the silver-haired boy might be anywhere in the house. But then he continued down the stairs.

The door to the cellar was in the space under the stairs. Tom had a torch in his pocket, and as soon as he stood at the top of the steps going down, he switched it on. There was a dank smell and a dripping sound. The stairs were wooden and rickety, so Tom went gently. The beam from his torch was powerful, and he raked it over a brick floor and puddles.

A huddled shape in the corner made him jump but it was only a tarpaulin.

Apart from necessary household supplies, the cellar seemed to be empty. His foot splashed in a puddle, and Tom cursed under his breath. Nobody, nothing, was down here.

He stood for a minute, feeling the cold, imagining the moat flowing around him in the darkness. It really was just a cellar. It was clear nobody came down here, except when they went to bring up tins of tuna, tomato soup and bottles of wine for Jack when they were needed. Tom shivered, sniffed in the mushroomy tang and clambered back up the stairs. He was glad to leave it and closed the door gently behind him.

Standing in the dim hallway, he could make out the shape of the grandfather clock and of the painting above the fireplace of William Swinton. Now, he thought, he could hear music. Was it the notes of a pipe playing? Or could it be Zita, awake, sitting at her windowsill? The sound made his skin shiver, wild and soft at the same time. He remembered the carved wooden flute in his room. He crept back up the stairs, trying as far as possible not to make them creak, and stood uncertainly on the first-floor landing.