“This business pays taxes which ultimately go to pay your wages. You are getting in the way. I’m a law-abiding woman, and if I find out anything you need to know you will be the first to hear of it. Do I make myself understood?”

“Ah, well.” Smith cast her a sly little glance. “You will, as well, won’t you? Huh.” He paused in the doorway. “If you don’t you’ll be bleeding sorry,” he hissed, and was gone like a bad smell.

“Oh shit,” Miriam whispered, and sat down heavily in the swivel chair he’d vacated. Now the immediate threat was past, she felt weary, drained beyond belief. The bastard!

“Uh, ma’am?”

“Yes, Roger.” She nodded tiredly. “Listen. I know you meant well, but, next time—if there is a next time—stay out of it. Leave the talking to me.”

“Uh, yes.” He ducked his head uncertainly. “I meant to say—”

“And leave the fucking crowbar behind. Have you any idea what they’ll do to you for attacking a Police Inspector with a crowbar?”

“Ma’am!” His eyes bulged—at her language, not the message.

“Shit.” She blinked. “Roger, you’re going to have to get used to hearing me curse like a soldier if you work for me for any length of time. At least, you’ll hear it when the bastards are attacking.” She caught his eye. “I’m not a lady. If I was, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” she added, almost plaintively. And that’s for sure, more than you’ll ever know.

“Ma’am.” He cleared his throat, then carefully pretended not to have heard a single word. “It’s about the furnace. I’ve got the first epoxide mixture curing right now, is that what you wanted?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, relief forcing its way out of her in a shout.

“That’s what I wanted.” She began to calm down. A thought occurred to her.

“Roger. When you go home tonight, I’d like you to post a letter for me. Not from the pillar box outside, but actually into the letter box of the recipient. Will you do that?”

“Um.” He blinked. “Would it be something to do with the King’s man as called, just now?”

“It might be. Then again it might not. Will you?”

“Yes,” he said firmly. “Don’t like those folks. Not at all.”

After he retreated to his workbench Miriam sat down in front of the manual typewriter and threaded some paper into it—then paused. They can identity typewriters by their typeface, can’t they? she remembered. Sort of like a fingerprint. And they lift messages off used ribbons, too. She pulled out the notebook computer and briefly tapped out a note, then printed it on the battery-powered inkjet printer she’d brought over with her. Let them try and identify that.