“On a night like this? Have some sense!”

They moved off, two of the newcomers going ahead of the couple whom Rollison had met and the third following. Rollison waited until their footsteps had faded then pushed a hand through his hair, looking very thoughtful as he walked to the back door of the Whitings’ house and tapped.

After a long pause, the door opened. A faint glow of light shone from another room. A thin man was outlined against it, but Rollison could not see his face.

“W-what do you want?” His voice was unsteady.

“If you’re Mr Whiting, I want to see you,” said Rollison. He pushed his way past and closed the door. He heard the hissing and popping of a lighted gas-jet and widened the doorway from which the light came. It shone on a weedy-looking young man with thin hair, pale features, a harassed expression.

“Who-who is it, Erny?” asked a woman from another room, in a quavering voice. Are—are they back again?”

“I don’t know,” muttered Erny Whiting. “I — No! They’re not!” His voice rose and his troubled expression cleared. “Why, it’s the—”

“Hush!” urged Rollison.

Whiting stood and gazed at him in silence while a little anxious-and-tired looking woman came from the other room. She stopped abruptly when she saw Rollison, a gleam of recognition in her eyes.

“The others might be listening outside,” said Rollison, “I’ll make sure. You let Mr Kemp in—he’s at the front.”

Mrs Whiting turned to obey after only a moment’s hesitation. Rollison went into the yard again but found no one. He returned to the house and was ushered into the tiny parlour. Kemp was inside, stooping slightly because the ceiling was so low. In an armchair in one corner sat a very old woman, her hair drawn tightly back from her forehead. Her lace was so thin that her skin was a mass of lines and wrinkles. She looked at Rollison with bright, beady eyes—both suspicious and wary.