At the door of the bazaar I stood back to let a young mum go through, pushing a buggy. A little girl dressed up like a fairy was riding in it, complete with tiara and wings, and brandishing her plastic magic wand. I pointed at the spot where Sophie and Pat were chatting. They had come together to commiserate, joined in mutual despair. ‘Wave it over that pair,’ I said, tapping the wand, ‘there’s a love.’

Half an hour later I was standing in North Street, across the road from the pharmacy, gazing intently at Maisie’s shopping list, when I became aware of a genteel thumping noise close by. Ricky and Morris, sitting at a table near the window of Taylors, a genteel and elegant tea room and one of their favourites, were knocking on the window and gesturing for me to join them.

By the time I got inside, Ricky had already signalled to the waitress to bring me a coffee. ‘You’d better bring another cheese scone as well,’ he called to her, ‘a big one.’ Sometimes I love that man.

Morris moved his bags of shopping from the seat of a vacant chair so that I could sit down. I hadn’t seen either of them since the auction, so I brought them up to date on that, and told them all about Verbena Clarke and my visit from the police the previous evening. ‘I’ve worked for that damn woman for two years,’ I told them, busily slathering butter on my cheese scone. ‘But she’s always treated me like filth. You should have seen her face when she spotted me at the auction.’

Ricky and Morris began chuckling.

‘What?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘She just didn’t like the competition, love,’ Ricky told me.

‘Aw, come on!’ I gaped at him. ‘Are you trying to tell me she’s jealous?’

‘I remember her when she was a kid,’ he told me. ‘She could get anything she wanted by flashing those baby blues. Now she’s a woman with teenage children and a husband who’s dumped her and time’s marching on. The baby blues don’t work so well any more and it’s a bit late for her to cultivate charm. She’s left wondering why people don’t like her.’

‘But I’m her cleaner,’ I objected. ‘We’re not engaged in a popularity contest.’

Ricky gave a derisive chuckle. ‘You might not be. She is.’

Together with my scone, I chewed this over. ‘So, do you think she used the robbery as an excuse to get rid of me? Because if she genuinely wasn’t sure when her earrings had been taken, she could have rung me before she set the police on me.’

Ricky and Morris exchanged a look.

‘There might be another reason, love,’ Morris suggested sadly.

‘What do you mean?’