Teenagers buzzed about her newly discovered talent for the violin in the same sentences as they gossiped about her torrid police scandal and a lost mother who remained in the deep shadows of murder mystery. 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. ’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘Back to Blaye, my girl. She confided in me yesterday. None of this by-play escaped Ruth, whose sense of humour needed no developing. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. The door to the apocalypse had opened! "Loves me?. Be so good as to let me pass, sir,” she added, looking her obstructor steadily in the face.
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