They were the only lights in evidence. As I wheeled my bike up the front path I could see no sign of life. For the first time it occurred to me that Mrs Benyon might well have turned in for the night. As I tugged at the bell pull and heard the resultant carillon distantly clanging, I began to rehearse phrases of explanation and apology. I might as well have saved myself the trouble. No answer came to my summons, neither there nor round at the back where, having put away my bicycle, I tried my luck at the scullery door, banging on it with the handle of a mop which I found propped outside. Desperate, I took the mop round to the side of the house, to Mrs Benyon’s bedroom window, and swished it against the glass, at first diffidently, then with a reckless abandon that took no heed of the consequences. Nothing. Doubly opaque with net curtains and drawn blind, the window stayed blank, no frame for an enraged housekeeper awakened from her beauty sleep.
