Who would help? She thought at once of Landsbury, but he was farming in Rhodesia. Who else had been with them in the war? Fielding and Jebedee were dead, Steed-Asprey vanished. Smiley—where was he? George Smiley, the cleverest and perhaps the oddest of them all. Of course, Miss Brimely remembered now. He made that improbable marriage and went back to research at Oxford. But he hadn't stayed there… The marriage had broken up… What had he done after that?

She returned to her desk and picked up the S-Z directory. Ten minutes later she was sitting in a taxi, heading for Sloane Square. In her neatly gloved hand she held a cardboard folder containing Stella Rode's card from the index and the correspondence which had passed between them at the time of the summer competition. She was nearly at Piccadilly when she remembered she'd left the office window open. It didn't seem to matter much.

'With other people it's Persian cats or golf. With me it's the Voice and my readers. I'm a ridiculous spinster, I know, but there it is. I won't go to the police until I've tried something , George.'

'And you thought you'd try me?'

'Yes.'

She was sitting in the study of George Smiley's house in Bywater Street; the only light came from the complicated lamp on his desk, a black spider of a thing shining brightly on to the manuscript notes which covered the desk.

'So you've left the Service?' she said.

'Yes, yes, I have.' He nodded his round head vigorously, as if reassuring himself that a distasteful experience was really over, and mixed Miss Brimley a whisky and soda. 'I had another spell there after… Oxford. It's all very different in peacetime, you know,' he continued.

Miss Brimley nodded.

'I can imagine it. More time to be bitchy.' Smiley said nothing, just lit a cigarette and sat down opposite her.

'And the people have changed. Fielding, Steed, Jebedee. All gone.' She said this in a matter-of-fact way as she took from her large sensible handbag Stella Rode's letter. 'This is the letter, George.'

When he had read it, he held it briefly towards the lamp, his round face caught by the light in a moment of almost comic earnestness. Watching him, Miss Brimley wondered what impression he made on those who did not know him well. She used to think of him as the most forgettable man she had ever met; short and plump, with heavy spectacles and thinning hair, he was at first sight the very prototype of an unsuccessful middle-aged bachelor in a sedentary occupation. His natural diffidence in most practical matters was reflected in his clothes, which were costly and unsuitable, for he was clay in the hands of his tailor, who robbed him.

He had put down the letter on the small marquetry table beside him, and was looking at her owlishly.

'This other letter she sent you, Brim. Where is it?'

She handed him the folder. He opened it and after a moment read aloud Stella Rode's other letter:

Dear Miss Fellowship,

I would like to submit the following suggestion for your 'Kitchen Hints' competition.

Make your basic batch of cake mixture once a month. Cream equal quantities of fat and sugar and add one egg for every six ounces of the mixture. For puddings and cakes, add flour to the required quantity of basic mixture.

This will keep well for a month.

I enclose stamped addressed envelope.

Yours sincerely,

Stella Rode (née Glaston)

PS.—Incidentally, you can prevent wire wool from rusting by keeping it in a jar of soapy water. Are we allowed two suggestions? If so, please can this be my second?

'She won the competition,' Miss Brimley observed, 'but that's not the point. This is what I want to tell you, George. She's a Glaston, and the Glastons have been reading the Voice since it started. Stella's grandfather was old Rufus Glaston, a Lancashire pottery king; he and John Landsbury's father built chapels and tabernacles in practically every village in the Midlands. When Rufus died the Voice put out a memorial edition and old Landsbury himself wrote the obituary. Samuel Glaston took on his father's business, but had to move south because of his health. He ended up near Bournemouth, a widower with one daughter, Stella. She's the last of all that family. The whole lot are as down to earth as you could wish, Stella included, I should think. I don't think any of them is likely to be suffering from delusions of persecution.'

Smiley was looking at her in astonishment.

'My dear Brim, I can't possibly take that in. How on earth do you know all this?'

Miss Brimley smiled apologetically.

'The Glastons are easy—they're almost part of the magazine. They send us Christmas cards, and boxes of chocolates on the anniversary of our foundation. We've got about five hundred families who form what I call our Establishment. They were in on the Voice from the start and they've kept up ever since. They write to us, George; if they're worried they write and say so; if they're getting married, moving house, retiring from work, if they're ill, depressed, or angry, they write. Not often, Heaven knows; but enough.'

'How do you remember it all?'

'I don't. I keep a card index. I always write back you see… only…'

'Yes?'

Miss Brimley looked at him earnestly.

'This is the first time anyone has written because she's frightened.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'I've only had one bright idea so far. I seem to remember Adrian Fielding had a brother who taught at Carne…'

'He's a housemaster there, if he hasn't retired.'

'No, he retires this Half—it was in The Times some weeks ago, in that little bit on the Court page where Carne always announces itself. It said: "Carne School reassembles today for the Lent Half. Mr T. R. Fielding will retire at the end of the Half, having completed his statutory fifteen years as a housemaster."'

Smiley laughed.

'Really, Brim, your memory is absurd!'

'It was the mention of Fielding… Anyway, I thought you could ring him up. You must know him.'

'Yes, yes. I know him. At least, I met him once at Magdalen High Table. But—' Smiley coloured a little.

'But what, George?'

'Well he's not quite the man his brother was, you know.'

'How could he be?' Miss Brimley rejoined a little sharply. 'But he can tell you something about Stella Rode. And her husband.'

'I don't think I could do that on the telephone. I think I'd rather go and see him. But what's to stop you ringing up Stella Rode?'

'Well, I can't tonight, can I? Her husband will be in. I thought I'd put a letter in the post to her tonight telling her she can come to see me any time. But,' she continued, making a slight, impatient movement with her foot, 'I want to do something now , George.'

Smiley nodded and went to the telephone. He rang directory inquiries and asked for Terence Fielding's number. After a long delay he was told to ring Carne School central exchange, who would connect him with whomever he required. Miss Brimley, watching him, wished she knew a little more about George Smiley, how much of that diffidence was assumed, how vulnerable he was.

'The best,' Adrian had said. 'The strongest and the best.'

But so many men learnt strength during the war, learnt terrible things, and put aside their knowledge with a shudder when it ended.

The number was ringing now. She heard the dialling tone and for a moment was filled with apprehension. For the first time she was afraid of making a fool of herself, afraid of becoming involved in unlikely explanations with angular, suspicious people.

'Mr Terence Fielding, please…' A pause.

'Fielding, good evening. My name is George Smiley; I knew your brother well in the war. We have in fact met… Yes, yes, quite right—Magdalen, was it not, the summer before last? Look, I wonder if I might come and see you on a personal matter… it's a little difficult to discuss on the telephone. A friend of mine has received a rather disturbing letter from the wife of a Carne master… Well, I—Rode, Stella Rode; her husband…'

He suddenly stiffened, and Miss Brimley, her eyes fixed upon him, saw with alarm how his chubby face broke into an expression of pain and disgust. She no longer heard what he was saying. She could only watch the dreadful transformation of his face, the whitening knuckles of his hand clutching the receiver. He was looking at her now, saying something… it was too late. Stella Rode was dead. She had been murdered late on Wednesday night. They'd actually been dining with Fielding the night it happened.