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pieces of china kept in the corner cabinet. There was a bare look to the walls, the mantelpiece and the hearth. The brass companion set, a wedding present, was in pawn too. So was the lovely brass fender. The pawnbroker had offered her money for the fender, and Maggie was presently thinking she’d have to go and accept his offer.
    The cheerful, smiling Mr Jerry Bates wasn’t put off by the obvious.
    â€˜It’s a tidy house you’ve got, Mrs Wilson, I can see that. I’ve been places, yer know, and seen all kinds, and I always say if someone keeps a tidy house, you can lay to it you’ll get a good bed with a decent mattress.’
    â€˜Well, I wouldn’t offer no-one a bed that didn’t have a decent mattress,’ said Maggie, hiding her nervousness as she studied him. His boater was off, his brown hair thick and wavy, his moustache handsome, his wide eyes full of light and good fellowship, and he looked as if he’d spent lots of time in the sun.
    â€˜I can offer references,’ said Mr Bates. ‘I last had lodgings with a fam’ly in Dartford.’
    â€˜I’m sure,’ said Maggie. She was having an awkward and nervous time. Mr Bates was different in every way from the oily, smirking Mr Hooper. He was very open and frank in his manner, and so cheerful. Just the kind of lodger she’d like. Oh, Lord, he couldn’t be the man the police were after, he surely had to be just a man looking for lodgings. ‘What fam’ly d’you ’ave yourself?’ she asked.
    â€˜Just me old ma and pa, and they’re in Australia, near Sydney. That’s a place, I can tell yer, Australia.’
    â€˜Oh, my parents – ’ Maggie was interrupted by a knock on her front door. Swallowing, she said, ‘Excuse me a minute, Mr Bates.’
    â€˜Pleasure,’ said Mr Bates.
    Maggie knew who it was, of course. While she was out of the room, Mr Bates contemplated the ancient wallpaper and the absence of hanging pictures. There weren’t many houses, even in Walworth, where the parlours contained not a single picture, not even one of a Highland stag at bay. Unless the occupants had pawned everything. Amid the murmurs of voices at the front door, Mr Bates counted the lighter patches, square or rectangular, on the wall-paper. Six. All with ‘Uncle’ now, of course. No ornaments, either. And the fire was empty of fuel, the hearth bare. This was a case of a woman with her back to the wall. She’d welcome a lodger. And maybe some charitable gestures.
    The murmur of voices became louder. The parlour door opened and Maggie reappeared. There were two men with her.
    â€˜Oh, Mr Bates,’ she said, ‘these gentlemen’s from the police, they’re doin’ the rounds of houses and makin’ enquiries, like.’
    â€˜Morning, sir,’ said Nicholas briskly, ‘sorry to barge in, but the enquiries concern the – ’
    â€˜Hold on, hold on,’ said Mr Bates, coming to his feet, ‘it’s Sunday, yer know, and it’s a bit much, disturbin’ this lady and her neighbours on a Sunday mornin’.’ His cockney accent had a twang to it. ‘Don’t think much of that meself.’
    â€˜It’s a murder investigation, sir,’ said Nicholas.
    â€˜Murder?’ Mr Bates sobered up. ‘That’s different.’
    â€˜And most people are at home on a Sunday morning.’
    â€˜True,’ said Mr Bates, ‘I grant yer that, inspector.’
    â€˜I’m Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain, sir, and this is Detective-Constable Chapman. We understand from Mrs Wilson that she’s a widow and has no lodger at the moment. Our enquiries, of course, concern – ’
    â€˜Men,’ said Mr Bates, and nodded. ‘One man in partic’lar, eh? Well, I read about the murder. Nasty. Don’t like that kind of cove meself.’
    â€˜Neither do we,’ said Nicholas. ‘However, Mrs