The Ice House

This year I accompanied the Professor on his annual visit to Grammersow Hall, the crepuscular stately home in Moreton on Lugg. Following a bracing constitutional around the grounds, I came across the Professor deep in thought at the entrance to the Ice House. After some minutes had passed, he spoke: 

"I come to this place on every Saint Jude The Uncertain day. It was here that I last set eyes upon my great friend Admiral Quilkin *. He marched into the Ice House, giving me a cheery wave as he disappeared. But he did not return. Some say he's playing glockenspiel in a reggae band on the outskirts of Tromsø. But I recently received an anonymous letter claiming that he'd been spotted buying blotting paper and safety pins in a shop just outside Wrangle Lowgate. That does sound the more likely option."

"But Professor," I felt compelled to ask. "If he failed to return, then could he still be in there somewhere?"

The Professor's expression became indisputably doleful as he admitted in a subdued voice: "That may be the case, but it's just possible that at the time in question I may have become somewhat inattentive and wandered off after a few minutes."

I advanced to study the dark abyss of the Ice House interior, but when I turned back, moments later, I saw the Professor disappearing at some speed in the direction of 'The Vole and Bassoon', a village hostelry of considerable renown.

* In the interest of avoiding any doubt on the matter, the Admiral Quilkin in question here is not the world-renowned inventor of the Quilkin Wicket Keeping Glove and Cocktail Shaker. That is a completely unrelated Admiral Quilkin. At least, I think it is.