Ed Clifton had walked for miles through the estate village, whose cottages were now inhabited by the staff who looked after the residents of Pelham Park; past the farmhouses and the lake and the river where he had learned to fish as a boy; and through the woodlands, which to his great joy were still exactly as he’d remembered.

He reflected fondly on school holidays spent roaming around with the estate children whose lives he would gladly have traded places with in a blink. They’d always thought him so lucky to live in the big house with all those people to look after him. But for Ed it had been like growing up in a straitjacket. He could recall a few family picnics but they were always grand affairs with servants on hand and guests who had come from all over the world – usually people associated with his father’s work. Nothing was ever done just for fun.

Ed decided he’d seen enough for one day. He glanced at the hilltop. On top was the family vault, its stark cross standing out against the blue sky. He would visit them soon. Just not yet. He had been glad to hear that his brother had removed his own memorial as soon as the two of them were reunited. Seeing it would have been strange, to say the least. Then again, in some peculiar way he did bury Xavier Kennington-Jones when he left home and became Ed Clifton all those years ago.

Ed walked into the house and almost bumped into Matron Bright.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Clifton,’ she said with a smile. ‘I trust you had an enjoyable walk.’

‘Yes thank you, matron. I should like to make a start downstairs. Will I need any keys to get to the cellar?’

‘Oh yes, of course. I’ll get you a set now. I’m afraid I keep everything locked up tight. I had a set go missing when we first opened – never found them and it’s always worried me. I’d hate for any of our residents to go wandering and find themselves somewhere they’re not familiar with.’ She darted away and soon returned with the keys.

Ed walked along the hallway to the rear stairs. He knew his way to the cellars, having spent a great deal of time down there with his paints. Ed was just twelve years old when, with his mother’s help, he’d set up a studio at the far end of the subterranean maze. The light was terrible but he’d been able to toil away during term breaks without fear of his father finding out. Initially he had attempted to copy the works of artists he admired, before beginning to find his own unique style.

One evening, when Ed was away at university and about to take his final examinations, his father had gone in search of some long-lost object that he’d decided must be in the cellars. When Henry discovered Ed’s secret he was furious. No son of his was going to be an artist – not when there was a company to run and a legacy to continue.

Henry Kennington-Jones destroyed every canvas and had the studio dismantled. No amount of pleading from his wife would make Henry see sense – he hadn’t stopped to discover that Ed’s work wasn’t just good, it was incredible. It wasn’t until Ed returned home at the end of semester that he discovered everything was gone. He’d felt as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

When Ed had confronted his father, there was a terrible row. They’d fought before but never like this. A week later, Ed had packed his things and left for the United States to pursue his dreams. The very next night his mother was gone too.

Ed’s chest tightened as he walked downstairs. He felt like a boy again.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door at the end of the butler’s pantry, careful to lock it behind him as Matron Bright had requested. Ed flicked the switch and a dull glow lit the stairs. The air was immediately cooler. He knew from experience that so long as moisture hadn’t penetrated the walls, the cellar’s constant temperature made it almost the perfect place to store artwork.

He reached the bottom and unlocked the second door. His hand reached instinctively for the light switch.

The cellars had always contained household cast-offs but he was stunned by just how much more had migrated downstairs. Strewn among the sideboards, lamps and other furniture, his grandfather’s and father’s collection of ghastly trophies were unmissable – although Ed did have a soft spot for Sidney, the polar bear who used to live in his father’s study.

‘How’s things?’ He looked up at the giant beast with its yellowing fur.

Ed picked a path between the goods, wondering how much anyone really needed in life.

He had always known about the vault. It was like an old-fashioned panic room, but he had never been allowed to see it as a boy. He pulled aside a black curtain and faced the vault door. Hugh had told him the combination of the lock – it wasn’t hard to remember, as it was the year Pelham Park was founded. Now two of them knew that secret. Ed turned the dial and pulled on the weighty metal handle. Instead of another jumble, he was surprised to find a vast, well-organised space with a large set of storage racks.

Ed walked among the canvases, marvelling at the sheer number and realising just what a big job lay ahead of him.

‘Oh my goodness,’ he said as he caught sight of a still life his mother had loved. She’d had it moved to hang in his bedroom after he’d commented on the light and shade. He was fairly certain it was a Caravaggio.

There were pencil sketches, oils, reliefs and a small selection of modern art among the more traditional portraits, still lifes and landscapes. Hugh had been right to seek his help. It would take days to go through properly. The collection would bring a pretty penny at auction, although Hugh had mentioned that Ed should think about what he would like for himself too.

Ed’s mind raced as he struggled to remember which pieces had been displayed in the house. He smiled to himself. He and his mother had often conversed about the origins of the works and their style. It was a love they shared.

Ed reached into his pocket. He wondered if his phone would pick up a signal down there, as he wanted to catch Hugh before his trip.

He looked at the screen and saw a single bar, but as the telephone rang it went straight to messages.

‘Hugh, Ed here,’ he said. ‘I’m downstairs at the moment and this is amazing. I don’t think I realised what an astute collector Mother was. There are works she bought from young artists that will be worth a considerable amount now as well as some incredible old stuff too.’

As he was leaving the message, something caught Ed’s eye. ‘Anyway, I’ll start on making a list and then we can get someone in to take a look at it all in a few days. Have a good trip.’

Ed walked towards the furthest rack. A large landscape jutted out from behind a portrait of a beautiful woman.

Ed put his phone back into his trouser pocket and pulled the landscape out, studying it closely.

‘No,’ he gasped. ‘It’s not possible.’

He peered at the bottom right-hand corner. Even in the dim light, he knew what he was looking at. The signature just confirmed it. Monet.

‘I don’t remember this being here.’ Ed swallowed hard. He knew that it couldn’t be there. It shouldn’t be there. And he knew that because he was almost certain the painting was stolen.