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keep an eye on her.
       Now the young policeman glances at her again. His hair is a reddish blond that makes his eyebrows and lashes almost invisible. It gives him a curiously blurred look around the eyes, as though his features have been pencilled in, then erased. He blows noisily on his tea, then turns towards Jane. His pale eyes linger. Does he expect her to collapse under the power of his gaze and confess that she let in a burglar to break the lock on Mr. Bentley's desk and rifle through his papers? How can he not understand that she doesn't know a soul in this city—no one to let into the house, no one to help her out of this misunderstanding?
       She stares back at him for one second, and another, then forces herself to look away to the window. I haven't done anything wrong, she tells herself, even though that's not exactly true. After all, this is a respectable household and she got herself a position here under false pretenses, didn't she? He's still watching her, and beneath the table she presses her knuckles together until they hurt.
       Down the stairs come feet heavy against the treads. The woman from upstairs—Price. From the way her eyes flicker past her, Jane knows she has spoken against her to the policeman. Most likely she's told him she found her listening at Mrs. Bentley's door that very morning. Price whispers something to Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson tilts her head, says, "No no, not yet."
       As for Elsie, she's got her head down amongst the parsnips she's peeling at the sink. When she's looked over at Jane it has been with awe.
       Yet all Jane did was answer the door, as she was told to do. There was the knocking, and Mrs. Johnson telling her to hurry upstairs, and the man who said he was Mr. Bentley, who gave her his hat and was angry with her. She'd cried on the stairs, then she'd gone back to her mending in the kitchen, was still at it when there was another knock at the door. Half an hour after the first? Surely not that long, but she isn't sure. Mrs. Robert back early from an outing. Jane took her coat and hung it up, asked if she would be needing tea. Mrs. Robert didn't reply. She was pointing at the coat already on the stand. "Do we have a visitor?"
       "No, ma'am. Mr. Bentley came home a little while ago."
       "Mr. Bentley? That's not possible." Her voice was thin, and she held out a hand, touched the wall as though she might fall. Her mouth looked suddenly stiff.
       For a moment Jane had not known what to say. Then she told her, "He's in the study, ma'am."
       "Very good. Please ask him to come to the drawing room." Then she walked away unsteadily.
       Hardly had Jane knocked when the man himself opened the study door. He stood right there in the way. "Yes?"
       "Mrs. Robert would like to see you in the drawing room, sir."
       "Many thanks. And would you be so good as to order up some tea?"
       She'd only just started downstairs when she heard the rattle of the knocker as the front door closed. Hadn't she shut it properly? When she went up to check there was nobody there; the door was closed. Mrs. Robert had come out of the drawing room wanting to know who was at the door. Then she'd glanced at the stand: the coat and umbrella were gone, and only one hat remained.
       Mrs. Robert rushed to the study and swung open the door so violently that it knocked against the wall and sent a picture crashing down onto a cabinet, where its glass shattered. Such an accident merely added to the disorder of the room. Boxes and boxes of papers torn open and strewn around, the drawer of the desk lying on the floor, the front broken where the lock had been forced. Mrs. Robert walked into the room with her hands outstretched as though she could dispel this disaster. Then she held them up to her mouth and mumbled through her fingers, "Send for the police, Marie; we've been robbed."
       Marie. But she remembered Jane's name well enough when the police