She forgot that today Mrs. Sugden was supposed to be her grandmother. She walked to the row of houses, where Mrs. Sugden was chatting over the fence with the woman in the end house. Mrs. Sugden was so engrossed that Harriet went back to the garden bench and sat down. Holding Sergeant Dog by the collar, she patted his head. Still whining, he licked her face.

When Mrs. Sugden joined them, Harriet took her to see the scarecrow in its damaged finery.

They both stared at the hole with a burn mark around it. It was Mrs. Sugden who recognised a bullet hole. “This scarecrow was shot through the tummy.”

Mrs. Sugden examined the jacket and shirt more closely. “Harriet, have you got that little camera with you?”

“Yes.”

“Take pictures of this scarecrow. Get a picture of that Jermyn Street tailor’s label, get a picture of that bullet hole.”

While Harriet took pictures, Mrs. Sugden allowed Sergeant Dog to lead her to the back door of the house. Sniffing and whining, he proudly drew her attention to a doormat.

Normally, Mrs. Sugden would report back to Mrs. Shackleton. But Mrs. Shackleton was otherwise engaged.

She knew that photographs or no photographs, all Missus Waste-Not-Want-Not would have to do was deny all knowledge of the scarecrow and its outfit. Better tackle the woman now.

“Harriet, walk up and down the street with Sergeant Dog. I’m going in to talk to that neighbour. You can let people see you.”

“You’ve already talked to her.”

“So I have, and while she’s in talkative mood I’m going to take her statement.”

Mrs. Sugden had never taken an official statement before, but there was always a first time.

The neighbour’s name was Valerie Pennington. She admitted taking some items of men’s clothing from the fire. God intended her to or He wouldn’t have sent a downpour to douse the flames. She slipped the shirt and jacket onto the scarecrow so as not to be seen making off with them. The shirt might make something. The jacket would go towards a quality rag rug.

When all that business blew up about a murder and stories of a body on a train, she thought she best leave it alone. She’d done nothing wrong. A woman had to live. Mrs. Sugden sympathised. It was hard when you were on your own, trying to make ends meet, paying your rent.

Mrs. Waste-Not-Want-Not Valerie Pennington admitted that it helped being granted a grace and favour cottage, but a woman had to eat, and buy coal.

They parted on good terms. Mrs. Sugden agreed that if she took the shop, she would be happy to sell Miss Pennington’s pies and cakes. She did not mention a good quality Jermyn Street jacket that was intended to have a second life as a rag rug.