‘And is the ba—’

‘Twins.’

‘Oh my goodness.’

‘A little boy and a little girl. My son said he’s going to name the girl after me. He said, “I hope she turns out just like you, Mum, because you’re the best one there ever was.”’

‘And are they—’

‘The midwife said she’d never seen a healthier pair, never. But Enid’s just a scrap of a thing and my son’s told me he wants me to come in every day and help with the babies. “Mum,” he said, “you shouldn’t be out slaving for strangers when there’s work at home to do,” and my husband agrees, he said to me, “I’m sure Miss Lee and Miss Simpkin will understand that family needs to come first.” And, anyway, my youngest has just had a promotion at the Post Office so we can manage now without my little bit of pin money.’

The Flea actually had to bite the inside of her lip to keep her composure.

The tremendous cheek of the woman! Mrs Bowling’s tenure as a more than adequately paid daily help had been marked by a gradual diminution of labour: all shipshape for the first month or two, and then a slow shrinkage of the areas subjected to scrubbing, a lowering of the height dusted, a neglect of less-frequented corners, all accompanied by a stream of chatter about the comforts of family life. No one, she implied, who had never had children or a husband could possibly understand true joy or sorrow – and it had begun to seem to The Flea that these two aspects were linked, and that a type of contempt for her spinster employers, living their barren lives, had led to a carelessness about how they were served. Mattie, of course, had noticed nothing – had swished past like a Daimler – but the idea had gnawed at The Flea until at last she’d determined to speak out, at least about the cleanliness part. And now this cup had been taken from her.

‘I suppose I could stay another fortnight,’ said Mrs Bowling.

‘No, that’s quite all right,’ said The Flea. ‘I’m sure we can manage without you.’

She had just sat down again – feeling more at ease than she had for days – when the doorbell jangled.

‘The most infuriating thing has happened, Florrie,’ called Mattie, opening the back door and racing up the scullery passage. ‘I was crossing the Heath towards the—’

‘Mattie, we have a visitor.’ There was a warning note in The Flea’s voice. The kitchen door was ajar and through the gap Mattie could see a policeman’s helmet on the table. Its owner, a sergeant, stared at her as she entered the room, and then rose with what felt like deliberate slowness. He had sharp features, and brown eyes that were slightly too close together; a terrier’s face.

‘Miss Simpkin?’

‘Yes.’ She remained standing, her chin up and her knees a little bent. When questioned, imagine you are about to receive a tennis serve; with your senses on the alert, your stance easy and your muscles poised, you’ll be ready to return all shots – with backspin! Behind the policeman, The Flea hovered anxiously, hands clasped.