12
On the other side of the door was House’s favourite room. I had been there just once before, in search of the third key to Farringale. In character it is a pretty sitting-room, a perfectly preserved specimen of mid-to-late seventeenth century style, with elegant floral wallpaper, wrought-silver candlesticks (never tarnished) and a tall grandfather clock. House keeps it well hidden.
Val sailed her chair over to a wall and stopped, promptly producing a laptop from somewhere. She started it up and began typing furiously.
I took one of the tall, pale-upholstered chairs, and spent a moment collecting my thoughts.
‘What are we working with?’ said Val. She’d stopped typing and was waiting expectantly.
‘Lost islands,’ I said.
‘You mean like Atlantis?’
‘A bit more real.’
‘Atlantis isn’t
