There's no immediate answer. If Susan knocks a second time, and the typist assumes she will, the door will swing open as though pulled by an invisible hand. Nightingale sits on the floor, barefoot in jeans and a polo shirt, a heavily spiked cup of tea cooling at his side. There's soft music playing from a radio he found in an unused bedroom. The dial doesn't seem to correspond to any stations he remembers, just occasionally tunes into something that suits his mood. Tonight, it's 1940s swing - perhaps Glenn Miller, perhaps the mansion's slightly not-quite version of it.