” He looked at her pleadingly. ‘The gatehouse? But why must you move him at all?’ ‘Listen, missie. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre. It was fastened inside. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. like rabies. They heard voices inside but stood for a full thirty seconds looking at each other. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.
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