The Inspector’s blunt manner was beginning to annoy Miriam. But that’s what he wants, she realized suddenly: He wants me to make a slip. Hmm. “I arrived on the India Line ship Vespasian that morning, after a crossing from Ceylon,” she told him, very deliberately keeping to her story—the Vespasian had indeed docked that day, with some passengers aboard, but was conveniently halfway across the Atlantic by now. “I was so preoccupied with packing my posessions and getting ashore that I forgot to ask the purser to convert my scrip to honest currency. In addition, clothing suitable for the climate of Ceylon is inadequate here. So I thought a sensible first step would be to find a pawnshop and exchange an old pair of earrings and a small pearl necklace for a decent wool suit and the wherewithal to find a hotel room and cable my banker.”

All of which was, very remotely, true—and indeed Erasmus had arranged, for a fee and by way of a friend of a fellow traveler, for the purser of the Vespasian to find a passenger of her name in the ship’s manifest should anyone ask—but it was only as Miriam spun it out in front of Smith’s skeptical gaze that she realized how thin a tale it sounded. If she was in Smith’s shoes she could punch holes in it with very little effort. But Smith simply nodded. “I see,” he said. “Your husband left you adequately provided for, didn’t he?”

Miriam nodded. “Indeed.” Keep it close. Make him dig.

“And so you dabble in manufacturing.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, so Miriam didn’t answer. She just sat tight wearing a politely interested expression, wishing for the phone to ring or something to disturb the silence that stretched out uncomfortably.

“I said, you dabble in manufacturing.”

“I do not ‘dabble’ in anything, Mr. Smith,” Miriam finally stated in her iciest tone. “You’re a police officer. You can go ask the patent office questions—I’m sure Mr. Sagetree will be able to tell you whether there is any merit in the applications I filed last week. The first three, Inspector, of the many I have in mind.”

“Ah. I stand corrected.” Smith leaned back in his chair. “Well then, may I rephrase? Do you have any opinion of Burgeson’s business? Does he strike you as in any way at all being odd?”

Miriam shook her head and allowed an irritated expression to cross her face. “He’s a pawnbroker,” she said. “He’s a very literate pawnbroker with a good line in conversation, but I imagine sitting in the back of a shop gives him a lot of time to read, don’t you?”

“A literate pawnbroker. So this would explain why you have visited his establishment on three occasions?”