Jimmy had never treated Pat in that dismissive way, but perhaps that was because, like most of the friends she had through her brothers, he didn’t really see her as a woman. That seemed a bad omen, and Fen deserved better. She was funny, and brighter than she let on, and she obviously took care to make people around her happy. And she was lovely, too, with those bright eyes and soft, generous curves, which wasn’t relevant to her moral character but undeniably occupied quite a lot of Pat’s attention. She couldn’t help but recall a poem about corsets that had appeared in Tit-Bits a few years ago, and which Frank and Donald had quoted endlessly at her. The author bemoaned the fashion for tight lacing and wasp-waists and felt that the ideal female waist was “strong and solid, plump and sound, and hard to get one arm around.” Pat’s didn’t qualify, being straight and bony; Fenella’s absolutely did.

And she was engaged to Jimmy, for good or ill, so Pat put aside thoughts of what it might feel like to slip an arm around her waist, which meant she finally noticed the talking.

It was coming from a dark panelled door in the dark panelled wall to her left, which presumably led into the next room as part of a connected set. She hadn’t observed the other door when she sat down to clean her gun, and had been lost in thought since. Now she realised that people were speaking in the next room, and possibly had been for some time. Something about their talk had finally snagged her attention. It might have been a raised voice.

Pat had no interest in discovering anyone’s private business, and was, at best, indifferent to most of her fellow guests. But in that moment’s sudden awareness of a sound she’d missed, she did listen consciously, and she heard Maurice Haworth speak just on the other side of the door.

“There’s no point whining. If you want me to keep quiet, you’ll have to make it worth my while. That’s all.”

Pat’s hand stilled on the cleaning cloth. Someone else spoke—a male voice, further away and pitched low—and Haworth gave a sneering laugh. “I know what it’s called. Do you want me to dress it up—ask you for a loan on indefinite terms, while we both pretend to be decent English gentlemen? I know what you did. Pay up, or so will the world.”

The other voice spoke urgently, still very quiet. Haworth laughed again but replied at less volume, moving away from the door. Pat sat, back very straight, staring ahead.

This was not a conversation she wanted to overhear, still less one she wanted to be caught overhearing. It would be impossible to claim one hadn’t heard a word, even if it were true. Haworth would assume she’d been eavesdropping, and for all she knew his conversational partner might believe she’d overheard his secret.