Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. " "Hark!" cried Winifred, "Thames is arrived. \" Lucy scanned her memories for a face to match the name Josh Durkin. She struggled fiercely not to give way. 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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