“All the other tenants are out during the day.”

“Who’s the woman in black?”

“The landlady.”

Any husband about?”

“No, she’s a widow. She—Will she get over it?”

“She hasn’t broken her neck and her pulse is good and strong, so I really don’t think there’s much to worry about.” Rollison glanced at the brass clock and seemed to wince: it said twenty-five minutes past four. “Jolly should be here any minute. I’m going to leave you with him after I’ve telephoned the police. They’ll send a doctor along and look after the landlady and then they’ll ask you a lot of questions. Tell them the truth but don’t mention Asham Street. If they try to make it hot for you, leave them to Jolly. Don’t lie. If they ask a question you don’t want to answer, just keep quiet. I don’t think they’ll be difficult but there are awkward policemen.”

He smiled and squeezed her arm. Then he dialled Whitehall 1212—and as he held the receiver to his ear a taxi drew up outside.

A middle-aged man, dressed in black and wearing a bowler hat, paid off the driver and turned towards the front door.

“That’s Jolly,” said Rollison. “Let him in, will you?”

Judith went out at once and so did not hear what Rollison said to Scotland Yard. It did not seem to matter. The brief period of exhilaration had been short-lived; she felt far worse than she had before. It wasn’t because of Rollison but because of the evidence she now possessed that this might be—this was— dangerous. She glanced up to the next landing and could just see Mrs Tirrell, who hadn’t moved.

If she should die—

Judith opened the door and Jolly removed his hat, revealing thin, grey hair. In a brief glance she studied his face: it was part of her work to study faces and she did so subconsciously. He looked a gloomy man; his pale face was heavily lined and beneath the chin were many sagging wrinkles, as if he had once been much fatter; now he was thin and looked a little frail. He had doe-like brown eyes and when he smiled at her it was with a touch of eagerness merging with anxiety.