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rumpus room. Now it seems to be the playroom.”
    â€œPing-pong!” Timothy shouted joyously, advancing on the table in the middle of the room. A darts board was hanging on the farther wall, a folding bridge table in a corner held a partially-completed jigsaw puzzle, outdoor sports equipment huddled in another corner. Tessa raised the lid of an old chest perforated with holes and discovered a cache of games.

    â€œDo they have giant woodworm here, Mummy?” she asked fearfully, studying the holes.
    â€œWe don’t have woodworm at all,” Celia snapped indignantly. “Arnold drilled those holes especially, so that there wouldn’t be any danger if the kids played hide-and-seek and one of them got into the chest. There have been tragedies in the past …” Her voice trailed off.
    â€œFrom time immemorial,” I agreed. “Didn’t Tennyson do a poem about it—or was it Sir Walter Scott?”
    â€œProbably both,” Celia said. “It was a popular theme. No, Timothy—” she called. “You can’t go in there.”
    â€œOut of bounds.” Timothy read out a hand-lettered notice pinned to a side door.
    â€œNancy apologizes for that—” Celia relayed the message. “She’s piled all their clothing and private items in there and locked the door. She said it seemed the easiest thing to do.”
    â€œOh, good. I’m glad she’s done that because it’s exactly what we did. She won’t mind finding a locked room in our house, then.”
    â€œYou’ll find the key on the key ring—in case of emergency, but you shouldn’t have to use it.”
    â€œThat’s right. I left the key—just in case. The washing-machine overflows occasionally and water has been known to seep under the door. I’d appreciate it if she mopped up in there before any damage was done.”
    â€œThe cubicle over there—” Celia was uninterested in my domestic problems—“is a shower stall, so that you can rinse the sand off before you go upstairs if you’ve been swimming in the lake.
    â€œNever mind those steps—” She gestured and another
mound of ash fell to the floor. I wasn’t going to worry about it this time—the basement floor was cement. “They lead up to an old-fashioned bulkhead door—you have to go half way up the steps and throw it open. It used to be the only outside entrance to the cellar, but Nancy and Arnold had a proper door put in over there—” Another gesture, another heap of ash. “No one ever uses the bulkhead any more, but they never got round to having it sealed off. You’ll get a better idea of the layout when you see it in the daylight.”
    â€œI’m willing to wait.” I could hardly articulate the words for the yawn. The children seemed to be more alert. Timothy had found a ping-pong ball and paddle and was looking around hopefully for an opponent. Tessa had drifted over to the jigsaw puzzle and was becoming absorbed in it, something she could do easily with one hand.
    â€œYou could all do with an early night.” Celia led the way back upstairs and headed firmly for the front door. “I’ll be over in the morning. Get a good night’s sleep.”
    At the open door she turned back suddenly and hugged me. “Oh, Rosemary, I’m so glad you’re here!”

Chapter 3

    H i, Rosemary, Tessa and Timothy—Welcome to Cranberry Lane. I hope you’ll like it here. I just know we’re going to love your place …

    I had seen the note waiting for us on the kitchen table, but Celia had been dismissive. “You can read it later.”
    Later had arrived. The children were bathed and in their pyjamas, having a glass of milk and some sweet biscuits—we must learn to say “cookies,” as was printed on the packet—before going to bed. I was reading the letter aloud.

    I won’t try to put