There was no stopping him. Andrew kicked the lock hard in his finest imitation-karate kick. The wood splintered easily and the door crashed open, dangerously loud against the silent interior of the house. He stumbled and fell inside.

Kirsten and I followed, stepping gingerly across the threshold to help him up. We had entered the house; the knowledge passed over me in a hot wave, like I had walked through some mystical force-field.

The hall was untouched, its doors framed in gleaming dark wood. Every table and chair, every ornament and picture was arranged in casual elegance. The drapes were red velvet. There were no plants. It might have been the very same as it was left fifty years ago. We had expected dust piled thick on floor and tables, cartoon cobwebs stretched across the corridors. Anything but this timeslipped picture.

Kirsten looked around intensely, as if tracking something. She stared up the richly carved staircase to where it faded into shadow. Her fingers were flicking with a nervous rhythm.

Suddenly, theatrically, sarcastically, there came the slow ticking of a clock.