In between gasps and indrawn breaths responding to heroics on the cricket field, he ascertained that the incident was not as he had supposed—a disagreement between gentlemen of the road—but a scuffle involving Dickie and the owner of the tea shop. Unusually—Dickie being no trouble and never a lawbreaker—he’d gone for him. Thumped him in the bread basket and winded the old bugger! Been asking for it for years, mind, and no one blamed Dickie at all.

The self-appointed arbiter of the impromptu fisticuffs had been—no—not a bulldog, but a don. Tall, youngish, superior and wearing one o’ them gowns. He hadn’t stuck around to give his details. Never known to acknowledge, let alone help the police, those fellers. And Dickie himself had shown a clean pair of heels. He’d even abandoned a good sum of money, some of it in sixpences, on the pavement in his hurry. Thompson had picked up four shillings and five pence and handed that in at the front desk.

In response to Thoday’s last-minute question of, “Anything else strike you as odd about the incident?” the constable considered, then slowly said, “Might be something. There was another bloke watching what was going on. Not connected with the skirmishing, but interested. More-than-usual interested. Everyone else in the audience had drifted off about his business when the excitement was over, but this bloke popped out of the shop and watched Dickie until he turned the corner. Then he went after him. Not rushing to catch him up. More sort of . . . trailing him. They might be able to tell you more in the café about him. They have some sharp girls on the till there. Better than Aunty deserves.”

Three days had already elapsed since the ruckus in front of Aunty’s. Thoday decided that he would not leave his interview with the staff a moment longer and headed off to the marketplace.

The girl in charge of operations at the tea shop (the manageress, she announced with pride) was, as promised by Thompson, “sharp.” Not in manner, but in intelligence, Thoday judged. In her middle twenties, perhaps, she was confident and shrewd. And she fixed the sergeant’s attention with a pair of merry brown eyes. She was intrigued and not a little amused by the drama she’d witnessed, and was very ready to talk to the sergeant about it.

She seated him at a discreet table and poured him a cup of tea. Alice, she said her name was, taking off her beribboned cap and settling down at his table. Alice had seen the whole episode play itself out from beginning to end, and she was a good, succinct reporter. She was aware of Dickie. He called in occasionally for a slice of fruit cake by the back door. Cake and a chat. He was a flirty old thing and must have been a bit of a heartbreaker in his youth, she thought. He could still make all the girls laugh. A real gentleman, and Alice could always tell. There were some you couldn’t turn your back on without having your posterior pinched. But she had a way of dealing with that. Her knowing glance was a clear invitation to seek further and better particulars. He enquired. She told him. She smiled an indulgent smile when, in shocked tone, he warned her that she might well be risking an accusation of grievous bodily harm and should desist. She should be careful and ring him if she had a problem with any lusty tea-drinkers. He passed his card across, and she put it away in her pocket.