Impatient with such a fanciful idea, Philomena pasted a smile on her face. As if a room could have thoughts. She eased the door shut and continued, heading east, past door after door of deserted rooms. She shook her head. What a waste of space. So many families at home shared lodgings, five or six to a room. How comfortable they could all be in the Hall where there was space enough, it seemed, for half of London.

She met no one. The corridor ended at last. Yet another closed door barred her route. Suddenly nervous, Philomena ran her tongue over dry lips. What lay beyond? The only way to find out was to open the door, yet she hesitated.

The adventure seemed suddenly more serious. What if there really was something horrible in the East Wing? Perhaps her wild imaginings were right. Lord Thatcham’s wife might exist, hidden, behind this door. Philomena’s stomach fluttered. She paused a moment longer, bracing herself. She listened, one ear to the door, but heard nothing. The silence was more chilling than any amount of ghostly shrieks and groans.

She shivered. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Someone, or something, was watching her from behind. She froze. There’s nothing there. Still, Philomena’s flesh crept. She fought against terror, one hand on her mouth, until she could bear it no longer. She must look round or she would scream.

Fearful, trying to move without a sound, she half-turned, eyes wide in the gloom. A point of light to her left moved. She knew it. There was someone there.

The lamp flickered as her hand shook. The beam moved. She held her wrist steady and the glimmer of light was still. She moved again and the light shifted. She released a gust of pent-up breath in a sigh.

How ridiculous. The beam was no more than a reflection of her lamp. Its beam reflected in each of a row of huge mirrors that lined the passageway. Her own face glowed, wraith-like, above it. She blushed. Imagine being scared by a mirror.

Steadying herself, for her pounding heart threatened to jump straight out of her chest, Philomena took a firmer grip on the lamp, reached her hand out to the door and pushed, hard.

Nothing happened. The door yielded neither to her tentative push nor to a twist of the handle. She could not get through. It’s locked. She rattled the handle, wincing at the noise. No. It would not open. She would have to return to the safety of the nursery.

Slowly, her heartbeat returned to normal. Resigned to defeat, she turned to retreat when a glint of metal shining on the lintel above the door caught her eye. She stretched high to feel along the ledge with the tips of shaking fingers.