Macebury Street had a familiar look. It was akin to the one in which Miss Mayfield and Janet had had their flatlet in Alchester; a street fighting a rear-guard action, not against fish and chips, but against the throwing of the paper into the gutter; a street clinging desperately to some remnant of respectability. Exactly the place, Miss Mayfield thought, halting by number 44, that Emily Baines, in sudden and penurious exile, would look for – and be lucky to find.

Like its neighbours, the house was tall and narrow, once the home of a prosperous Victorian family whose servants inhabited the basement and attics. Its pale stucco had peeled and blackened, no paint had been near its woodwork for many years, but the knocker and the doorknob had been polished recently, and the curtains, though much mended, were clean.

A melancholy woman, in seedy black, the quintessence of all widowhood, answered the bell.

‘Mrs Baines. Yes, she’s in. Go right up as far as you can, and hers is the first door on the left.’

The hall smelt of years of cooking, of hundreds of damp coats that had hung on the angry-looking hall stand, of hundreds of anxious conversations held on the call-box type of telephone. It also smelt of floor polish.

Miss Mayfield climbed a flight of handsome stairs, one less handsome, and then a set that was steep and narrow. Out of breath, partly from the exertion, partly from excitement, she knocked on the first door on the left, and Emily Baines’s voice called, ‘Come in.’

Miss Mayfield opened the door upon a fair-sized room, sensibly, if shabbily, furnished. There was a table and two upright chairs near the window, a sagging but comfortable-looking wicker chair near the gas-fire, and one of those settees which could be converted into a bed. Thrown down on this was a blue cloak with a red lining. On the far side of the room was a three-panel screen, at this moment set in such a position that the gas-stove and kitchen cupboard, ordinarily concealed, were exposed to view. Mrs Baines, in a blue dress which matched the cloak, but with a gay apron tied over it, stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. Without turning, she said:

‘It’s on the table, Mrs Morgan.’

On the table some pound notes lay folded by a small blue jug, which held three tawny-yellow chrysanthemums.

‘It’s not Mrs Morgan,’ Miss Mayfield said.

Mrs Baines whirled around, still holding the spoon, from which some drops of custard fell to the floor.

‘Miss Mayfield!’ Her voice was hoarse with shock, and Miss Mayfield rebuked herself for lack of consideration. Before she could apologize, Mrs Baines said:

‘Who else is with you?’

‘Nobody. I’m all alone. I’m sorry I startled you. I didn’t think. I just happened to be in London – it’s half-term, you know – and I thought I’d look you up.’