Mike was already on dishwasher duty when John rang the doorbell. The Reaper is not sated yet. “Much as I hate rows, I’ve either got to make a stand or give in altogether. Hawk and Buzzard VI. Stanley, at the door. “You have not seen your sister lately,” he remarked. 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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