Miss Silver gave a gentle cough.

‘They are on very friendly terms now, but it is perhaps not quite the moment to make any announcement.’

‘No, no, of course not – I quite understand. But in the circumstances, I feel that if Mr Blount repeats his offer, or comes anywhere near to repeating it, there should be no unnecessary delay. His offer is, or rather was, an outstanding one. Miss Graham could not expect as much from any other quarter. Even if he were to make a much lower offer, I think she would do well to consider it.’

Miss Silver surprised him. She gave a bright sideways look which reminded him of a bird, and said,

‘You expect the price to come down, not so much on account of Mrs Graham’s tragic death and its possible effect on Mr Blount as because Mr Worple is no longer competing.’

Mr Martin repeated the second of the two names.

‘Mr Worple?’

Miss Silver inclined her head.

‘Yes. I happened to meet him when he called to inquire after Miss Graham.’

Mr Martin frowned. Every time Fred Worple’s name was mentioned it gave him the idea that there was something shady going on. Where had Fred got the money to go bidding a house up to something quite above its market value? A lucky win on an outsider – that was Fred’s answer. But why sink the money in buying a house in Grove Hill where he would be nothing but a fish out of water? He wished with all his heart that Fred would clear out. Mr Martin’s suspicions about him had a nasty way of spreading to his own client Mr Blount. The more he thought about any of it, the less he liked it. And here was this Miss Silver saying,

‘Mr Worple is a relation of yours, is he not?’

Practice had perfected Mr Martin in a formula which set Fred Worple at as great a distance as possible. He produced it now.

‘He is my step-mother’s son by a former marriage. I really know very little about him.’

‘I see. I understand from Miss Graham that your family has a long connexion with Grove Hill.’

Mr Martin smiled for the first time.

‘My grandfather started the business, but we had connexions here before that.’

Miss Silver beamed.

‘Then you are probably an authority on the local associations. I have come across an interesting book on the subject whilst staying at The Lodge – a history of the neighbourhood by the Reverend Thomas Jenkinson.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember my father had a copy, but I don’t know what has become of it. Curious how things disappear, isn’t it? Of course my stepmother may have it knocking about somewhere. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had. Curious your mentioning it now – I haven’t thought about that book for years. Rather a prosy old gentleman Mr Jenkinson, but there was a piece about the Gordon Riots… Now let me see, my father thought there might be something in that – some story his grandmother used to tell. She was from these parts, and came back again as a widow. She remembered the old Grove Hill House being burned down by the rioters. She had some kind of post there, I don’t know what, and my father could remember her telling him about the mob breaking in and Mr Warren losing his life – a very nasty business, and a lot of property destroyed. A good job we don’t have that sort of thing now!’

There was a little more talk during which Mr Martin kept the conversation firmly away from Mr Worple. In the course of doing so he dwelt on the recent growth of the suburb and said that his father remembered the High Street as very little more than a row of village shops.

‘Those houses in Belview Road, they were the first to be built somewhere in the nineties – ninety-six, ninety-seven or thereabouts. That was when the Lesters began to sell off parts of the old Grove Hill Estate. The house had been rebuilt, you understand, after the Riots – but I think not for some time after, and they kept that and the garden, but most of the park land was sold and built over. Land was getting expensive to keep up, and of course once we were into this century and Lloyd George came along with his land duties and his death duties all these estates started to break up. Wonderful to think of income tax ninepence in the pound on earned income and one-and-three on unearned! Well, we shall never see that again, shall we?’

Still discoursing in this safe strain, he escorted Miss Silver to the street door, produced a final message for Althea Graham, and was just about to step back into the outer office, when he changed his mind and hurried after her.

‘Miss Silver – if you’ll excuse me – you might perhaps be interested. That is Mrs Blount just getting off the bus.’

MISS SILVER WAS very much interested. The woman whom Mr Martin had pointed out as Mrs Blount did not at all correspond with his description of her as the spoiled delicate woman so much indulged by her husband that he was willing to pay an extravagant price for her fancies. Mrs Blount really did not look like that at all. She had unmistakably the air of a woman who has lost interest in everything. Her hair and skin quite obviously received no attention. Her clothes, originally of a fair quality, had a neglected look. There were wisps of hair on the collar of the coat, and the hem of the skirt sagged lamentably. Her stockings were twisted, and her shoes had not been cleaned for at least a week. But above and beyond all these things it was her face which fixed Miss Silver’s attention. Under the limp felt hat, it had a lost and hopeless expression. Someone past emotion, beyond any expectation of relief, might look like that. In the course of her experience, Miss Silver had seen a great deal of trouble, suffering, fear, and guilt, but even against this background there was something about Mrs Blount which gave her a feeling of dismay. Moving slowly towards her, she saw that she remained standing at the bus stop. The other passengers were dispersing, but Mrs Blount just stood as if the effort that had brought her there had petered out. Miss Silver was reminded of a child’s clockwork toy that has run down. She came up close and said in her pleasant voice,

‘You are a stranger here. Can I help you at all?’

Mrs Blount looked at her vaguely. She picked out one word from what Miss Silver had said and echoed it.

‘Help…’

Miss Silver put a hand on her arm.

‘I think you are not very well. Can I help you?’

The vague look persisted. The dry lips said,

‘No one – can – help me.’

Miss Silver regarded her with compassion.

‘There is a very nice café at the corner. If you can walk as far as that, we could have some tea or coffee together. A hot cup of tea is very refreshing.’ She kept her hand on Mrs Blount’s arm and took a step in the direction of the café.

Mrs Blount moved too. She did not seem to be either faint or giddy. In Miss Silver’s opinion she was suffering from shock. She was certainly in no fit state to find her way alone in a strange town. It would do her good to sit down quietly in one of the shaded alcoves at the Sefton Café and have a nice cup of tea. She guided her kindly and firmly in that direction and met with no resistance.

The time being now a little after twelve, the midmorning rush was over and it was as yet too early for anybody to be thinking of lunch. Miss Silver ordered a pot of tea and conducted Mrs Blount to the end alcove at the back of the room. Since there were four empty spaces screened off from one another by curtains in a vivid shade of emerald green between this alcove and the one in which an aggressive lady appeared to be laying down the law to a meek friend over coffee-cups whose dregs had long since congealed, Miss Silver could feel assured of privacy. She had not at that time any idea of how valuable this might be.

The waitress brought the tea on a green tray and departed. Mrs Blount leaned back in one of the ornamental wicker chairs, her eyes fixed as if upon some image of despair. Miss Silver poured her out a cup of tea and inquired whether she took milk and sugar.