But thirty-five pounds! he said to himself. In the context of his earned income alone, and of Majendie’s lucrative trade, it seemed a ludicrous sum to take as proof of a serious intent to bribe. But, to his certain knowledge, disastrous, ramifying scandals had sprung from tinier seeds. To return the brooch and tell them what he had learnt was, however, out of the question. It was better that Majendie’s, or Majendie, should believe him lulled in complaisance; at least, for a time. Besides, he didn’t want to put Stephanie Cole in the black. He wondered why he should bother with her. Stephanie Cole! Yet he couldn’t think of her harshly. Poor Stephanie, victim to a hazy, half-comprehended infatuation, to chafing impatience of the solid security that had coddled her; victim, perversely but inevitably, to resentment at being displaced from the position of spoilt family baby—he would have forgiven her a lot. And it would be too hypocritical in himself not to acknowledge a certain sympathy with the mainsprings, as he defined them, of her behaviour with the glove; sex, curiosity, and a desire for attention.

The telephone rang. He picked it up. “Primrose—” he began. A thick voice cut him short.

“Vat you, me ol’ cock sparrer? Ow you doin’? Eh? Eh? I said, ’ow you doin’, sparrer, eh?”

For a couple of seconds Brett’s mind reeled, adjusting itself to work he had forgotten. Then he felt his heart give a mighty, thankful bound. “Pink! All right,” he said, transferring the ’phone to his right hand and reaching for the pencil and message block.

“I bin keepin’ all right too. Change me job, I ’ave. Nice little job at ’Ampstead. Eh? I said ’Ampstead. Well, ain’t seen you since yer ’oliday. Ow’s dear ol Ramsgit? I like it all rairn Pegwill Bay. Eh? I said Pegwill Bay. Nice. Quiet like. Useter be, anyow. Get ve jets, ese days, overin abairt. Eh? I said overin. One come dairn ve ovver week, crash like, near ve ol fort. Eh? I said near ve ol fort. ol Roman place. You know. Ah well, wodger doin’ Chrissmas? I’m packin’ up Chrissmas Eve. Eh? I said Chrissmas Eve. Ain’t clockin’ airt midday, rotten ol barfs. I wonarf knock off sharp six-firty. Eh? I said six-firty. Well, might be seen you sometime, sparrer, eh? Dropper ve old usual sometime, eh?”

“Certainly,” said Brett. “Same place?”

“Ass me ol’ sparrer! Ah well, pushin’ off. Appy Chrissmass! Tooraloo!”

Brett put down the phone and studied the lines scribbled on the pad.

Hampstead Pegwell Bay hovering near the old fort Christmas Eve six thirty.