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through the open door.
    He pushed back his chair and followed her into the scullery. Lust made him clumsy and he banged his arm against the corner of the cooker. The water had boiled while he was eating. Edith had her back to him and was spooning tea into the pot. He stared hungrily at the shapeliness of her waist.
    â€˜Some workmen found some bones at that building site near the station,’ he said. ‘They may have belonged to a baby. They’re probably about sixty years old.’
    â€˜The poor thing.’ She brought the kettle back to the boil and started to fill the teapot. ‘Was it in a graveyard?’
    â€˜No. A cesspit.’
    â€˜Oh, dear. But I suppose it might have been a natural death. An illness or something.’
    â€˜Perhaps.’
    â€˜Talking of illnesses, I thought Elizabeth was looking a little peaky this evening. I took her temperature, but it was normal.’
    Thornhill put his hand on her right hip. He sensed – or imagined he did – the warmth of her body and the softness of her flesh through the thick tweed of her skirt. The crudeness of his reactions shocked him: touching her had the effect of doubling his urgency.
    â€˜David must come into contact with lots of germs at school,’ she went on, stirring the tea vigorously. ‘I know he hasn’t been ill himself but do you think it’s possible that germs can leapfrog on to someone else? He might have passed it on to her without having had it himself.’
    Thornhill put his other hand on her left hip. It was hard to breathe normally and his mouth was dry. He stroked his hands down her thighs and moved his body against hers.
    â€˜Oh, darling, don’t. I’m sorry but there’s such a lot to do before bedtime.’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’
    He stepped backwards. The scullery was unbearably hot. Edith put the teapot on the tray and covered it with the cosy. She saw him watching her and smiled, as if to reassure him that she wasn’t annoyed. He smiled back. Behind the mask, anger and shame churned silently inside him, blending with what was left of the lust.
    â€˜Let me.’ Thornhill picked up the tray and waited for her to precede him out of the room.
    â€˜Thank you, darling,’ she said.

Chapter Seven
    Charlie Meague waited until midnight.
    He had never needed much sleep, even as a child. During the war, he had developed the ability to catnap just as Winston Churchill was said to do. He waited in bed because it was the warmest place to be.
    Though he didn’t sleep, he let his mind lose its focus. Thoughts and images paraded themselves before him. A memory kept recurring: the box he had found this afternoon – not its contents, but the box itself. What haunted him was its familiarity. It was as if he had dug it up before, which was impossible. Somewhere another memory twitched and stirred in its hiding place. There must, he thought vaguely, be a good reason why that memory was so well hidden.
    His mother’s snoring changed its rhythm, distracting him. She was lying only a few inches away on the other side of the thin partition wall. He heard every cough and wheeze and sniff. She had had bronchitis in winter for as long as he could remember. It must be like trying to breathe through treacle.
    The old woman had had a bad day. One of her ladies had given her the push, and her cough was bad again; he had come back home to find her blue-faced and gasping for air. He’d tried, with some success, to take her mind off her sorrows by buying her three port and lemons at the King’s Head. He would have preferred to drink at the Bathurst Arms himself, but it was much farther away; besides, all things considered, it was probably safer to keep away from the Bathurst.
    In the pub, Charlie had enjoyed watching Ma Halleran queening it behind the bar and listening to her reliving her nocturnal adventure. Her account of her burglary became more dramatic with every