‘The dressmaking scissors. Adeline was holding them when she came into the room. Don’t you remember?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And she threatened someone with them. She threatened Rosamund.’

‘Rosamund?’

‘You saw it all. You were there—’

‘No! I left the room, I got my coat from the hallstand, and I went outside. Nobody noticed me leaving, nobody cared. They were all tied up in their own hatred.’

Hobbes started to speak, but decided against it. The room was darkening around them. He stood up, and made to click on the light. But Jeannie Watts worried herself over this.

‘No, please don’t do that. It’s too early.’

Hobbes turned on the light anyway, and saw her flinch in its glow. He returned to his seat at the table. Their faces were only inches apart. Spitting distance. In fact, he could see flecks of saliva on her lips. He could see every line around her eyes, every mark, the places where the effort was strong, and where it was weak. One of her cheeks was trembling. Her hands were balled into fists on the tabletop. Her whole body seemed paused to collapse, especially when Hobbes spoke again.

‘Tell me about the child in the photographs. Dotty in New Zealand.’

‘What about her?’

‘Who is the father?’

‘Why does that matter to you?’

‘Is there really a child?’

She could not look at him now.

The suspicion grew in Hobbes’s mind, a new and quite shocking way of seeing the events in the Adeline Graves case. But he still wasn’t sure.

‘Miss Watts? It’s best to tell the truth. A murder has been committed.’

Her fingernails tapped at the tabletop repeatedly. It took a moment, and then the relief played freely across her face as she admitted at last: ‘No. No child. No Dorothy. Only some photographs I found in a wastepaper bin at work. I thought she looked rather beautiful, and I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to throw them away. If I admitted that I was incapable of bearing children, would that explain my actions to you?’’

‘I would think that you’re lying.’

She was genuinely surprised by this. Her face gave everything away, and she stuttered, ‘How – how dare you? Dorothy is—’

‘Your name isn’t Jeannie Watts.’

‘What?’ The word came out in a gasp.

‘What is your real name?’

‘My name?’

‘Your real name? The name your parents gave you?’

‘Oh, I see what you mean. It was Nell. Yes. Now I see why you’re confused, Inspector. I was born Eleanor Smith. But everyone called me Nell. My mum, my dad. God bless them in heaven. And my foster parents … one family, and then another. They all called me the same thing. Nell! Nell Smith! I changed it when I started on my career. I needed a new name for the theatre, a stage name, something that would stand out.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘But you must! You have to believe me! Nell Smith at first, then Jeannie Watts ever after. This is the truth. There is no other truth!’