But it’s a joke, a well-worn joke; make a wax model and stick pins in it. Janet Lovelace had a record of some of the numbers from a popular West End revue: a man parked in a place inconvenient to another man, who said he’d make a wax model of the intruder’s big end (whatever that might be) and stick pins in it. In the record you could hear the hearty laughter that greeted that joke. Yes, it was a joke nowadays.

Not to Sydney. Not to his mother. Not to Ethel. And not to me. God help me, not to me!

She remembered how she had prayed, very humbly, either to be given some sign in this bewildering situation or to be given the strength of mind to dismiss it.

Was this the sign?

Equally urgent was the question: What to do with it? She was tempted to take it and lock it away somewhere, so that at some future date, if she ever needed it, she could produce it. But why should she ever need it? And had she the right to take it? It belonged to Ethel just as much as any other piece of property.

In the end, she replaced the cotton-wool, closed the box and fixed it back into position with the ends of sticky tape. Then she tried to forget it but couldn’t, and found herself, almost every day, under a neurotic compulsion to check on its presence. Day after day, as soon as school was dismissed for the afternoon, she would go to Ethel’s desk and push in an exploratory hand. The little box was always there. Ethel, having hit on a safe hiding place, was content to leave her secret there.

More than a week passed before anything noticeable happened.

At the very beginning of the term, Canon Thorby had spoken, about the Fête which was held every year on the third Saturday in July in the Rectory garden.

‘Ostensibly,’ he said, ‘it is to raise funds for the National Children’s Homes. My mother started it when it was called Waifs and Strays. I personally would rather write a cheque and be saved the bother and mess, but I can see that it is a social occasion justifying a new frock. We have coconut shies and bowling for a pig and a buried treasure and all the usual things, including – and this is where you come in – some kind of entertainment by the school children.’ He put on a half-comic, half-serious look of appeal. ‘And please, dear Miss Mayfield, could it not be animated nursery rhymes this year? Mrs Westleton’s inventiveness stopped short there, and apart from comparing this year’s Miss Muffet with last year’s – always to her detriment – interest is completely dead. Of course,’ he added hastily, ‘I know it is difficult to find anything which makes use of such diverse ages and sizes. Nobody must be left out.’