Margaret turned away. ‘We need a vegetable for lunch,’ she murmured.

Claud watched her go out into the garden in her thin shoes and start picking brussels sprouts, twisting the tender miniature cabbages off their obscenely thick stalks. She looked thin out there, bending in the cold wind, which made her eyes glitter with tears as her cold fingers fumbled at the vegetables, dropping them into a fold of her apron. She had forgotten to take the colander she usually used.

Claud took the colander from its hook. Should he take it to her?

She came in before he could make up his mind; he put it back on its hook.

‘I wonder, did I leave my umbrella here? I was at the concert the other night, Clug’s new Quartet, the Rumanian composer, conductor too, so talented and then the Bach—’ Martin looked round the hall, rather shabby and sad in daylight. ‘A black brolly with malacca handle, a gold band with my grandfather’s name on it. Otho Bengough. I put it over there, I think, or maybe not, I was sitting near the back, I—’

‘I am only the caretaker, well, cleaner, actually. It’s a holiday job before I go on to—’ The girl looked pleadingly at Martin with Pekinese eyes.

‘University,’ supplied Martin.

‘Polytechnic, actually.’ She blushed.

‘Just as good,’ said Martin. ‘Who d’you think would have it? The brolly?’

‘It can’t have been stolen, though—’

‘I wasn’t suggesting it had.’

‘Of course not, no; Robert, the arts director, would have given it to Emily Thornby to care for until it’s claimed. Though why she should be—er.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing. Oh, well,’ the girl blushed deeper, ‘it’s just that she’s such an odd person to put in charge of—er.’

‘Lost property?’ How very convenient. Was this a sign?

‘Yes.’

‘Apt to confiscate it for herself?’

‘Oh, I didn’t say that! No, no, it’s just that she’s funny, er, well—’

‘How is she funny?’ Martin probed.

‘Well, she’s a sort of lost person herself. I mean she doesn’t fit any usual category, none of the Thornbys do.’ The girl spoke in a rush. ‘Actually she’s rather terrifying, worse than her brother. Oh, I’ll give you their address. Here, if you have a piece of paper I’ll write it down. She would never claim to being lost, oh Lord no.’

Martin handed the girl a biro. ‘You don’t like her.’ He found an envelope in his pocket.

‘Nobody does.’ The girl began writing. ‘Except possibly Laura, that’s the daughter. I suppose she has to.’

‘You have beautiful handwriting.’ Martin inspected the envelope.

‘Oh,’ said the girl, ‘thanks. It’s no use telephoning them,’ she said, ‘their phone’s out of order, or was. I’ve written the number just in case, but often they don’t bother to answer. You might catch them latish—’

‘You seem to know their habits.’

‘Their daily lady works for my mother. She seems to like Laura. You may have noticed her at the concert, in a frightfully green dress, I mean green!’