“No indeed. I must admit, I had some concerns when we first spoke about this. But Mrs. Tilbury seems a sensible woman and her case is very persuasive.”

“I’m still investigating,” said Jean. “My first instinct was to believe her. But my second was not to trust my instincts.”

“It will be a blow to you if the blood test results tell a different story.”

“Yes. I’ve probably overinvested in the whole idea. But it will be worse for Gretchen. Mrs. Tilbury, I mean.”

“One has to wonder at her motive. You haven’t offered money?”

“Not a penny.”

“A quester after truth, perhaps. Like ourselves. I hope she is not too disappointed.”

“You don’t expect her to be proved right?”

“On balance of probabilities, no. But let’s not prejudge the results.”

The phone rang on Dr. Lloyd-Jones’s desk. He answered it and listened for a moment without speaking. Jean could hear the distant bubbling of a male voice on the other end.

“Yes, will do,” he said before hanging up.

“That was Dr. Bamber. He wants to talk to the mother without the little girl there for a minute or two. Perhaps you could wander along and entertain her.”

“Gladly,” said Jean.

“It was good to meet you at last, Miss Swinney. Here’s to a—I hesitate to say positive, so let’s just say interesting outcome for all concerned.” He thrust an arm across the desk and she allowed her hand to be tugged.

She found Margaret sitting on one of the hard wooden chairs in the phlebotomy waiting room, swinging her legs and reading a health education leaflet about smoking, titled The Adventures of the Wisdom Family. A wad of cotton wool was stuck to the inside of her elbow with surgical tape. The sight of her white ankle socks, smudged with blue where they rubbed the edge of her T-bar sandals, made Jean’s heart ache. She remembered her own mother taking out the box of brushes and cans of polish to clean her and Dorrie’s school shoes every Sunday evening, and felt a momentary regret that she would never be called upon to perform that solemn ritual.

“I thought it was going to be a comic book,” Margaret said, laying aside the leaflet, “but it’s not.”

“We could go and find a newsstand if you want a comic book,” Jean suggested. They had passed one on the Strand earlier.

“Why do people smoke?” Margaret asked as they walked back down Agar Street. “What does it taste like?”

“Strange to say, it tastes exactly how it smells. Of burning leaves. It’s unpleasant at first, a bit like drinking tea without sugar, but you persevere and after a while it tastes just fine. And then after another while you can’t stop.”

“I’m never going to smoke. Have you ever sleepwalked? I have.”

“No, I don’t think so. Where did you walk to?”

“Just into Mummy’s room. You’re not supposed to wake people up when they’re sleepwalking.”

“I’d heard that.”

“They can die. Have you got any pets?”