The choking dust and
general mustiness of the long-closed apartment drove Val to investigate
the window fastenings and throw them open to the morning air.
"There must be another door somewhere," he said, calling Ricky away from
a box where she was picking at the knotted rope which bound it. "All
these things couldn't have been brought through that hole behind the
bed."
"Here it is," she said a moment later, pointing to an oblong set flush
with the wall. "It's bolted on this side."
"Let me open it and see where we are." Val fumbled at the rusty latch,
but he had to use an iron poker from a discarded fire stand in the
corner before he could hammer it back. Again the door resisted their
efforts to push it open until Val flung his full weight against it. With
a snapping report it swung open and he sprawled forward into the short
hall which had once led into the garden wing, an ell of the house
destroyed by roving British raiders during the days of 1815. The only
wholly wooden portion of the house, it had been burnt and never rebuilt.
"Come on," Ricky pulled at Val's sleeve, "let's explore."
He looked at his black hands. "I would suggest some soap and water,
several brooms, and some dusting cloths if we're going to do it right.
Better make a regular house-cleaning party of it."
"Goodness, what have I strayed into?" Charity Biglow stood in the lower
hall staring at the younger Ralestones as they came through from the
kitchen.
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