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history of Monkton Manse?”
    “Way ahead of you,” said Molly, rubbing her chin with a single gloved knuckle as she concentrated.
    “Monkton Manse was built on the ruins of the abandoned monastery building, in 1924,” I said. “Hence the name. By the first and last Lord of Trammell; otherwise known as Herbert Gregory Walliams. War profiteer, quite obscenely rich, and an utterly appalling person by all accounts. He bought Trammell Island so he could set it up as his very own independent kingdom, with him as its self-appointed lord, so he wouldn’t have to pay taxes. They were still fighting that one out in the courts when he died.”
    “Suddenly and violently and horribly, I trust?” said Molly. “And no, I’m not picking up any defences, of any kind.”
    “Once again, it’s hard to be sure what happened to him,” I said. “He held huge parties here, in his big new home away from home. Celebrations for the rich and famous, the idle and the eccentric, and celebrities of all kinds. There were quite a lot of all of those, back in the Roaring Twenties. Desperate to show they were still having a good time, even as the world closed in on them. Sex and drugs and really hot jazz—often for days or even weeks on end. There were scandals and atrocities, murders and suicides, and abominations of all kinds. It was all building up to a really nasty exposé, involving big names from politics and business as well as high and low society . . . when once again, it all went suddenly very quiet. A boatful of policemen and journalists, and certain other interested parties, arrived at the Island to discover everyone in Monkton Manse was dead. There were signs to suggest it all happened quite recently, over one very long night. They used guns and knives and blunt instruments, and finished the slaughter with their bare hands. There were signs some of the killers had paused to feast on the flesh of the victims before continuing their bloody business. The authorities found the first and last Lord of Trammell scattered all over the house; bits and pieces of him in every room.”
    “I can’t find a single defence, protection, or booby-trap anywhere,” said Molly. “Which is . . . odd. So, why did they all kill each other?”
    “No one knows,” I said. “Again, my ancestors investigated very thoroughly, and found nothing. Not a single answer, not even the smallest clue. I suppose it is possible the jaded partygoers went a little too far in their dabbling with the black arts . . . ventured into areas best left alone, and attracted the attention of . . . Something. Perhaps the same Something that came for the missing monks . . .
    “Monkton Manse was emptied out, cleaned up, and then sealed. Left to rot and fall apart, far and far from the civilised world. Trammell Island was declared off-limits, to everyone.” I looked at Molly. “And this is the place your parents brought you to? How old were you then?”
    “Fifteen,” said Molly. “And don’t you dare judge them. It’s not like they had much of a choice. It’s not easy finding places in this world that the Droods can’t see into. But . . . I don’t remember this as a bad place. I don’t remember anything but happy times here.”
    “In this house?” I said.
    We studied the closed, locked door. “You’ve got a key, haven’t you?” said Molly.
    “Of a sort,” I said.
    I subvocalised the activating Words, and Drood armour slipped out of the golden collar around my neck, and ran down my right arm to form a golden glove around my hand. I pressed one gleaming finger against the heavy brass lock, and golden filaments extended from my fingertip, filling the lock and forming into just the right key. I turned the key in the lock, pulled my armour back into my torc, and pushed the door open. It swung slowly inwards, revealing a dark, shadowed hallway. The hinges groaned loudly.
    “How very traditional,” said Molly.
    “Be fair,” I said. “No one’s