The Lord is no longer at home. He would be easy to recognise; brusque figure with remarkable eyebrows. Stilted by the camera, the Yellow Earl is confined to black and white. When the castle was stripped perhaps so too was his residue. More real are the groundsmen, the groomsmen, the maids. We have exposed their intimate world of bedroom, bath tub and hearth and captured it in sketch and photograph. They endure in the cascading ribbons of waterlogged wallpaper, tissues of presence. Two hundred and six years compacted a few millimetres thick. Stiff claret paint on plaster of the Lonsdale racing livery suddenly gives way to floral, a child’s bedroom, then strident geometric now disrupted by mould. The ghostly dye imprint of a later fallen sheet leaches back through the mulch of its predecessors like an apparition through a wall. The hand-worn misshapen door handle. Bruised timber around the keyhole in the gloom of the clock tower. The careful graphite hand on the boards of the woodsman’s hut. Those for whom work and life was Lowther are still to be found.