” “And you?” asked David Courtlaw. “This is not a matter altogether for levity, Anna,” she said. 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. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered.
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