“What about the people in thirty-two?” Molly asked. The Pyms lived at thirty-two. “ Do you get any trouble from them?”

“She’s all right,” the woman said, the urge to gossip stronger than the desire to sell the house. “She’s very quiet. Always polite but keeps herself to herself. Sometimes I wonder if she’s got some illness. Something progressive that develops early. She always looks so pale, and a couple of times I’ve been to the doctor’s and seen her in the waiting room.”

The woman seemed afraid that as soon as she moved, Jane Pym would make public her life-threatening illness, and she would be denied the drama of it and the satisfaction of telling people that she had known all along.

“What about the husband?” Molly asked. “ What’s he like?”

“He’s a teacher,” the woman said; then again discretion was overwhelmed by her pleasure in a good story. “ But he’s got a dreadful temper.”

“Oh?” Molly said, the ideal audience, wanting more.

“Terrible,” the woman said, and Molly thought that the Bristol accent was perfect for gossip, soft, confiding, friendly. “Last year we creosoted our fence. Roger Pym stormed round here late one night and accused us of killing all the plants in his garden. You could see it wasn’t true, but there was a dreadful scene. I thought I’d have to get the police, but he went quietly enough in the end. His wife made him see sense. We haven’t had much to do with him since then, but”—she paused to heighten the dramatic effect—“one of the neighbours says he killed their cat, strangled it with his bare hands, just because it was taking the birds coming onto their bird table. I knew when we first moved in that he was weird.” She lowered her voice and said in a shocked whisper, “ He’s a grown man, and he goes birdwatching!”

Soon after, Molly left. She thanked the woman for showing her around. She had other properties to see, she said. She was very impressed with the new kitchen but thought she might find it a little intimidating. She had enjoyed the conversation. It had really been very interesting.

In the hospital Molly and Claire found George still in bed but desperate to leave. He was a fractious and unhelpful patient, and the staff would have been pleased to be rid of him, too.

“This is ridiculous!” He was raging to the staff nurse who was trying to take his pulse. “You’ve seen the X rays. You know there’s nothing broken. So why do I have to wait for the doctor?”

“You’ve had a concussion and serious bruising,” she said. “Besides, I’m not supposed to have given you the results of the X rays.”

“This is madness!” he cried. “I should be in Cornwall. There are things I should do.”