Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. But that did not stop Trodger, who had ridden up from Kent for the purpose, from detailing every little inspection and sortie that his men had made in their allotted task of watching Remenham House. Could you just let me in? I have a surprise for him. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave.
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