The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. He heard the woman talking again. She did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. Used to play together, we did, all over Remenham House. 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.
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