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as uncooperative as Miss Slade had said she was. He turned on to Sydenham Street. Lamps were lit in a few houses, but they were all meagre. On this street few people could afford the luxury of unnecessary candles or lamp oil. The street gaslights were already turned on and they flickered, sickly yellow, making little dint in the gloom. They were widely spaced, perhaps simply because the street was old, perhaps because nobody of any importance lived there.
    Number seventy-six was situated in deep shadow between two street lamps. As Murdoch came up the path, he noticed that the upstairs window was clumsily draped with a blanket and a light showed through. He could hear the sound of a baby crying.
    Nobody had answered his first knock and he banged the door again, louder. He was about to knock a third time when a voice called from the other side of the door.
    “Who is it?”
    “My name is Murdoch. I would like to speak to Agnes Fisher.”
    The door opened and the face of a young woman appeared in the crack. She was not what Murdoch expected, hardly more than eighteen or nineteen and from what he could see, she was pretty, with light brown hair, loosely pinned up. He tipped his hat.
    “Good afternoon, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you, but I am looking for Agnes Fisher.”
    She scrutinized him. “Just a minute, I’ll fetch a light.”
    The door closed with a snap and he wondered if he was going to have to use his police authority to get in. However, in a moment the woman reappeared carrying a lamp.
    “Come in out of the cold,” she said and stepped back so he had room in the narrow hallway. “Did the school send you?”
    He nodded, glad he wouldn’t have to go into an explanation. “I assume I am not speaking to a member of the family. You are not Mrs. Fisher, surely?”
    The young woman smiled. “No, of course not. I’m Kate…I mean, I’m Mrs. Ralph Tibbett.”
    Behind her, the baby’s wail grew louder and she glanced over her shoulder anxiously. Mrs. Tibbett had the full, lush figure of a woman recently confined.
    “I’m sorry if I wakened the baby,” said Murdoch. He listened. “Or am I mistaken? Are there two?”
    She sighed. “I have twin boys. I had better tend to them.” She nodded in the direction of the stairs. “Aggie lives upstairs. She’s a good girl,” she added, her voice sharp. “Her father is often ill and she stays home to take care of him. If that’s what you’ve come about.”
    “Did you see her today?”
    “No, I didn’t, but then the twins have been so mardy all day, I wouldn’t have heard Her Majesty herself if she came calling.”
    The wailing of the two infants was unabated and Mrs. Tibbett hurried toward the parlour door. Murdoch thought he was going to have to find his way upstairs in the dark but suddenly she realized that and swivelled around.
    “Do you have matches?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “There is a sconce directly at the bottom of the stairs. You can light the candle.”
    She went into the front room, leaving him alone. He fished out his box of matches, struck one, and lit the candle. There was barely enough light to see by but it would do. The stairs were uncarpeted and the wall covering was a dingy brown flock. As it turned out, he didn’t need the candle to guide him. From above, a man’s voice erupted with all the obscene vigour of the very drunk.
    Murdoch felt the muscles at the back of his neck tighten. As a child he had been only too familiar with the violence of a drunken man. Even though he had run away when he was twelve years old, the memory was like a perpetual sore that never quite healed. What he had to hold in check now wasn’t fear but his anger.
    The Tibbett babies had stopped crying and the man was suddenly quiet and in the unexpected silence the only sound was the creak of the stairs. Murdoch halted at the landing. A light shone from under the door to the front room. He gave a short knock on this door and, not waiting for an answer, turned the knob