There are four on the key ring, plus a pink plastic fob labeled The Manse in a curling, jaunty script that in no way matches the building itself. I stand in front of the locked door on the top floor, eyeing the lock and the keys and trying to work out the match. It can’t be the Yale key; this is not a Yale lock. Of the other three, one I know is for the front door, so that seems an unlikely candidate. That leaves a large black iron one that looks more like it would fit a garden gate, and a key very similar to the front door—one for a traditional lever lock. I try the latter first. No luck. The black iron one won’t even fit the aperture. I try the front door key, and for a moment I feel a slight give—Yes!—but then it sticks. It’s not the right key, either. I try the two lever lock keys again, just to make sure, but the door stays resolutely, rebelliously, locked.

The door itself seems to be constructed the same as every other door in the house: of fairly old, but solid, whitewashed wood. I could take an ax to it, if I had an ax (is there one in the boot room or the cellar?), and if I was on my own, perhaps I would, but I can just imagine Carrie’s surprise if I started smashing the place up. Though perhaps I shouldn’t have expected the managing agent to have a key: if the room is purely for storage of the owner’s things, you wouldn’t want the agent to accidentally give that key to a rental family. Probably I should be asking Pete if he knows where the key is. Irrationally it rankles that I’ve been beaten. The defeat is only temporary, but I know that somewhere in a deep, dark corner of my mind, that dull spherical doorknob is lingering malevolently and looking for the opportunity to spread its malice.