Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. 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 swift frown brought the still dark brows together for a moment. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. Such was the hubbub and tumult around him, that the carpenter could not hear its plunge into the flood. It was if the world had blinked out for a moment.
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