“Sorry about that,” said Martha, cheerfully, adjusting her headscarf, which had become twisted in the scuffle. “It’s par for the course.”

She seemed quite invigorated by the altercation. Jean felt a rush of affection for her quiet, suburban street, where the only sound likely to disturb the peace might be the whir of a lawn mower or the jangle of a milk truck.

“I was looking at your paintings,” she said. She was going to elaborate but lost courage when she saw Martha’s expression darken. “I like them,” she finished lamely.

“Please don’t say any more,” Martha said, holding up a hand as though to ward off blows. “I hate it when people praise my work.”

“It’s better than criticism, surely?” said Jean, feeling bound to defend herself. She had never met anyone quite so resistant to flattery.

“You can’t accept compliments and then dismiss brickbats. You have to treat those two impostors just the same. For my own sanity, I choose to ignore them both.” She fiddled nervously with her wrist bindings as she said this, unbuckling and tightening the straps.

“Do you exhibit? In galleries and things?” Jean sensed herself venturing across thin ice again but was unable to stop herself.

“I’m trying to build up a body of work that I feel completely comfortable with.” Martha’s tone was brittle. “It’s a hard world to break into.”

“I’m sure,” murmured Jean, retreating to solid ground.

“Luckily, I have my two days a week teaching to bring in enough to live on.”

“It must be difficult to do both.”

“Teaching is a drain on my time and energy. But I’m good at it,” she said, a trifle defensively. “And on the other days, I paint.”

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” said Jean. “I don’t want to take up precious painting time.”

“It’s all right. The light in here is lousy in the afternoons anyway. So . . . Gretchen.” Martha sat back down and rummaged in the cookie box, looking puzzled to discover it was now empty. “I suppose she’s married now.”

“Yes, to a nice man called Howard. Not the father of the little girl, of course. Margaret.”

“Margaret. Well, well. I feel guilty for disbelieving her now. But on the other hand, you can’t really go along with all that virgin birth twaddle, can you?”

“I’m keeping an open mind,” said Jean. “Or rather, I’m confident that the scientists will get to the bottom of it. But I’m interested to hear your view of Gretchen.”

“I didn’t mean to give the impression that I thought she was a regular liar. I didn’t at all. But I don’t believe in the supernatural, and she can’t have got pregnant during her time at St. Cecilia’s. We were never alone. You couldn’t even unwrap a toffee without bloody Brenda hearing it.”

“That’s more or less Miss Halfyard’s view. Although she wasn’t so hard on Brenda.”

“Matron,” said Martha, shaking her head at the memory. “She didn’t like me much. We had a few run-ins, as I recall.”