'You were expected, sir,' said the secretary, switching to English. 'You both were. Mr. Stefan has been called away — a domestic problem. Madame is with him. They will join you tomorrow evening.'

'We are looking for Mr. George Kosinski,' said Dicky.

'Perhaps Mr. George too. Shall I show you your rooms? May I have your car keys? I will have your bags brought in.' Karol was a thin stiff-backed fellow, with an unnaturally pale face and bloodless lips. His hair was cut short and he wore very functional glasses with gunmetal rims. Adding this Teutonic appearance to his somewhat unconvincing deferential manner left the effect of a German general pretending to be a waiter.

Karol went to the front door, opened it and made a signal with his hand. After spasmodic bursts of engine noise, the motorcyclist lurched forward and made a tight circle around a patch of land that in summer might become a front lawn. Then he roared away in a cloud of foul-smelling exhaust fumes. The two youths on bicycles followed him and were soon swallowed by the gloomy forest.

He closed the door and picked up an oil lamp. We followed him slowly, Karol, and the wooden stairs, both creaky and arthritic. We stepped carefully around a large collection of potted plants which had been brought in from the front balcony for winter, and now occupied most of the staircase. Upstairs he took us to the far end of the corridor and held the light while we looked inside a bathroom. It echoed with the sound of a dripping tap and there were long rust stains patterning its tub. The faint smell of mildew that pervaded the house was at its strongest here, where the warm air from the boiler no doubt promoted its growth. Each side of the bathroom — and with access to it — there were our bedrooms. My window overlooked the forest that came close to the rear of the house. Immediately under this window there was the wooden roof that sheltered the long veranda along the side of the house. Cloud was draped across the vague shape of the moon but there was still enough light to see the veranda steps, and a well-used path led to a woodshed and a fenced space where half a dozen garbage bins were imprisoned. They were tall containers with stout metal clips to hold the lids on tight, the sort of bins needed in regions where wild animals come foraging for food after dark.

Under the supervision of Karol a young manservant came struggling under the weight of our cases. We watched him as he lit all the oil lamps and then arranged our baggage. A long-case clock in the hallway downstairs struck nine. The secretary announced gravely that we should gather in the drawing room in time to go in to dinner at ten o'clock. He looked at me. I looked at Dicky. Dicky said we'd be there.

Once we were alone Dicky said softly, 'So he is here! George Kosinski. You were right, Bernard, you bastard! You were right.' He groaned and sat down on his cotton crochet bedcover, pulled off his cowboy boots and tossed them into the corner.

'We'll see,' I told him. 'We'll see what happens.'

'What a place! Where's Baron Frankenstein, what? There must be fifty rooms in this heap.' The house was big, but fifty rooms was the sort of exaggeration that expressed Dicky's pleasure or excitement; or merely relief at not having to spend the night on the road.

'At least fifty,' I said. It was better not to correct him; Dicky called it nit-picking.

'I wonder if the whole house is as cold as this. I need a hot shower,' said Dicky, rubbing his hair and looking at the dirt on his hand. He went and inspected the bathroom and grabbed the only large towel. Then, with the towel over his arm, he bolted the door that led to my bedroom. 'Driving on those cart-track roads leaves you coated in filth.' He said it as if adding to the world's scientific knowledge; as if I might have arrived at the house aboard a cruise ship.

I went to my room and unpacked. Having taken possession of the bathroom Dicky could be heard whistling and singing above the sounds of fast-running water. I opened the doors of the wardrobe and looked in all the more obvious places in which a microphone might be concealed. As part of this exploratory round I tried the door to the bathroom, and it opened to reveal a second door. In this space, the thickness of the wall, someone had left cleaning things: a mop and a broom, a packet of detergent and tins of floor polish. It was I suppose an obvious place to store such things. Scented steam came from the bathroom and Dicky's voice was louder. I closed the door quietly. The provision of hot water was encouraging, for this seemed to be a mansion without many of those utilities taken for granted in the West. No electricity supply was in evidence. The elaborate brass electric light fittings and parchment shades were dusty and tarnished, and had clearly not worked for many years. The equally ancient paraffin lamps, one each side of my bed, were clean and bright, their carefully trimmed wicks giving a mellow light without smoke.

I looked around my room. There was only one window, the upper part of which consisted of leaded panels of stained glass, artistically depicting some of the more savage episodes of the Old Testament. The room was made more gloomy by the paneling, the heavy carved furniture and an embroidered rug with folk-art designs, that hung against the wall alongside the bed. Arranged facing towards the bed — as if for visitors in a sickroom — were two large armchairs with upholstery from which horsehair stuffing emerged in tufts, like unwanted hair in depilatory advertisements. Upon a glass-fronted bookcase there was an antique clock — silent and still — and an ashtray from the Waldorf in Paris. There was a case of dusty unread travel books dating from the long-ago days when Poles were free to travel, and a threadbare oriental carpet; the sort of once-cherished objects that were relegated to the guest rooms of grand houses. The only picture on the wall was a lithograph, an idealized profile portrait of Lenin, his bearded chin jutting out in what might be construed as a gesture of foolhardy provocation. Directly under the picture, on the chest of drawers, there was a tray covered with a linen cloth. Under the cloth I discovered a china teapot, a tin of Earl Gray tea from Twinings in London and a cup and saucer. Stefan Kosinski was seemingly a man who didn't encourage his guests to join him for breakfast. The large wood-fired white porcelain stove in the comer was warm to the touch. Everything was ready. Who, I wondered, had foreseen our imminent arrival? And what other preparations awaited us?

There was something contrived about the formality with which dinner was served in this remote country house. Poland's sz1achta had always been the bulwark against social changes, both good and bad. No doubt such meals served by maidservants were a way for the Kosinski family to distinguish themselves from villagers, some of whom might in these days of black market boom be making more money than their betters. It was an appropriately formal gathering. Karol presided as if a delegate of his master. Stefan's elderly Uncle Nico and Aunt Mary took their seats either side of him. Aunt Mary was a cheery granny of the sort that the Poles called Babcas. When we first entered the drawing room it was she who got up from the sofa to greet me. Having tucked her needlework into a basket that she carried with her almost everywhere, she smoothed her skirt with both hands and smiled. Karol the secretary introduced me. Aunt Mary said, 'How do you do?' in perfectly accented English. Those were the only perfectly accented English words I ever heard her use.

Her husband Uncle Nico was frail; a thin white-faced man with yellow teeth and a cane to support himself as he walked. He was wearing a hand-knitted shawl over a dark, well-tailored suit that was shiny with wear. 'You've come to visit Stefan?' Uncle Nico asked in good English. He inhaled on a cigarette, having first flicked ash into an ashtray which he carried with him. It was already loaded with ash and butts. His face was chalky white and his eyes large with the stare that comes with old age. I remembered the stories George had told me, and I knew that this was the man who had adopted Stefan when George's parents escaped; his father just a few steps away from arrest and charges of being an agitator and class enemy.