‘Only for a few years,’ she said shyly. She spoke in a sort of strangled voice as if she was trying to kill any trace of a Cockney accent.

‘The waitress said your husband is the haberdasher.’

‘Yes. I thought you were watching the shop.’

Rose smiled. ‘Now why should that bother you?’

‘It’s my husband. He’s ever such a suspicious man. It’s all come on him lately. He jumps at shadows.’

‘Perhaps too much work?’ suggested Rose.

‘It shouldn’t be. He’s got plenty of staff.’

‘I was supposed to meet my fiancé for lunch,’ sighed Rose. ‘But he is always so busy. He is a private detective. My parents think that is a terribly common thing to be. He does have some fascinating cases, however. He is looking into the death of Dolores Duval.’

‘I read about that in the newspapers,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘But they’ve got someone for it.’

‘Yes, her brother, Jeffrey Biles. But he hanged himself. Dolores was originally Betty Biles from Whitechapel.’

Mrs Jones suddenly bent her head. Rose realized with a jolt of shock that she was crying.

‘My dear Mrs Jones. I do not want to upset you.’

She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. Then she raised her head. ‘It’s my husband, Mr Jones. He used to talk about her the whole time. Then when he found out she’d become no better than she should be, he got bitter about it.’

‘He did not have any contact with Jeffrey Biles, did he?’ asked Rose.

Mrs Jones jumped to her feet, knocking her teacup over. She ran for the door.

The waitress had been watching them avidly and she now hurried over to clean the spilled tea from the table.

‘Now what do we do?’ asked Daisy.

‘The steam has cleared from the windows. We’ll watch the shop again. I want to see what kind of man he is.’

They moved back to their original seat.

Rose looked at her fob watch. ‘It is nearly lunch-time. Look, that must be our Mr Jones.’

A tall thin man had emerged from the shop. He was holding Mrs Jones tightly by the arm. She was crying as he hustled her off down the street.

‘As she had read about the case in the newspapers, it’s a wonder she did not recognize my name,’ said Rose. ‘What did you make of him?’

‘He’s a lot older than his wife,’ said Daisy. ‘But he’s got a sort of weak face. I can’t imagine him murdering anyone.’

‘I wonder how Harry is getting on,’ said Rose, ‘because I can’t really think of what we can do here now.’

Armed with a letter from Kerridge, Harry went to Pentonville Prison to interview the guard who had been on duty at the estimated time of Jeffrey’s suicide.

He was told that the guard, Joseph Carver, had not come in for work. Harry saw the governor and got Carver’s address.

‘Whitechapel,’ he said to Becket when he came out of the prison. ‘All roads lead to Whitechapel. Our guard did not show up for work. His address is 5 Gerald Street.’