Mr Jones swallowed a gulp of whisky. ‘I am neither sly nor mad. I listen to the radio and read the papers. I mind my own business. You should know that, Matilda. Hugh knows it.’

‘After all these years I certainly should.’

Mr Jones looked gravely at Hugh then at Matilda. ‘It seemed to me no business of mine to inform on your visitor and Tom never informed on me so fair dos, I thought, finding Hugh Warner here, fair dos.’

‘We, I mean I, never believed –’ Matilda hesitated.

‘Never believed in the UFOs?’

‘Well, not really.’

‘Just as well, nobody else does, so in return I do not believe in the Matricide. You cannot,’ Mr Jones leaned forward to put a hand on Matilda’s knee, ‘you cannot believe all you read in the papers or hear on the radio, that’s a fact.’

‘It is.’

‘Mind you,’ Mr Jones laughed, ‘I don’t suppose he ever told you.’

‘He didn’t. I only found out after his death.’

‘Well then, you know now. Sorry.’

‘For the last few days almost everyone I’ve met has been hinting at a Tom I didn’t know. I thought that was spiteful London but now you do it too.’ Matilda paused. ‘He hid things from me.’

‘Not telling is not necessarily hiding. He knew and I knew if he upset me about the UFOs I’d take umbrage. I would have stopped him, so he said nothing, that’s all’. Mr Jones finished his whisky, put his glass down on the grass and sprang to his feet without using his hands.

‘We’ll play chess another day,’ he said to Hugh, shook Matilda’s hand and walked off jauntily.

‘Well!’ Matilda sat back on the grass, stretching her legs, ‘I’m blowed! What a simpleton I’ve been. It never dawned on me he and Tom were partners.’

‘You look shocked.’ Hugh gathered Folly into his arms. ‘You must have had an inkling.’

‘None. It was after Tom’s death I found –’ She hesitated.

‘Evidence.’ Hugh was smiling, his teeth foxy. ‘Pot and heroin.’

‘You’ve been prying.’

‘Surely you didn’t expect me not to?’

‘Rather ungentlemanly.’ Matilda’s voice was tart. Then she giggled. ‘What did you find?’

‘Heroin. I flushed it away. What did you do with the pot?’

‘Smoked it.’

‘All of it?’

‘No.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In the bank.’

‘And you say under a stair carpet is imaginative.’

‘I didn’t have much left. I packed it into a silver cigarette box of my grandfather’s and left it for Claud. He likes it.’

‘How much did you use?’

‘Don’t know. It lasted some months after Tom –’ She sat up suddenly. ‘D’you think Tom really had his heart attack in the rue Jacob or d’you think it was in Louise’s bed? She lives just round the corner, she could have pushed him out.’