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her, and the woman turned and ran back through the snowy puddles, her heels kicking up little spurts of icy liquid. The paper gave the name Jack Jennings and the address of a lodging house in Newton Road, which was just a short walk away. Frances pulled her mantle tightly about her and set off.
    A small, thin girl of about thirteen with a face like smudged paper and a ragged excuse for a cap opened the door, and on being told Frances’ business admitted her and asked her to wait while she took her card and the message up to Miss Jennings. There was nowhere to wait except the hall, so Frances stayed there. It was a narrow space innocent of paint or paper, and rarely swept, with a single unlit candle on an iron holder sagging dangerously from the wall. The air was damp, and although the floor was just bare boards, there was a smell of rotting carpets, while a bitter draught under the front door made it seem colder inside than out. After a few minutes, the maid returned saying that Frances could go up to the third floor, and should knock at the door with a number eight chalked on it.
    Frances clambered up the wooden stairs, which gave under her feet rather more than they ought, and was admitted to the Jennings apartments by a lady of about fifty. At first glance, Frances wondered if she had seen Miss Jennings before, but then realised that she was experiencing recognition of another kind. Miss Jennings, a plain single lady, her life devoted to the care of an elderly parent, was the future that Frances would have had if her father had lived. She was the woman that Frances might be in thirty years’ time; neat, quiet, uncomplaining and unloved.
    Jack Jennings was in his seventies, his head and cheeks powdered with white hairs like the snow. He sat in an easy chair in front of a fire, where a large well-blackened kettle stood on the hearth. He was wrapped in shawls, puffing at a pipe, and in front of him was a stool on which rested a mug of tea and a plate with two thick slices of bread and dripping. His expression was amiable, and he looked peacefully content with his lot.
    The room was clean and tidy, and though small, escaped clutter by being furnished with only the simplest necessities. A narrow dresser was sufficient for the Jennings’ crockery and linen, and there was a bed with folded blankets in one corner, a washbasin and jug on a table and drying laundry on a wooden clotheshorse. Another door suggested the existence of a second room, a smaller one in all probability, where Miss Jennings could have some measure of personal privacy. Frances hoped so.
    ‘You have spoken to my sister?’ asked Miss Jennings, offering Frances a chair before the fire. ‘Is she well?’
    ‘Oh yes, she is very well,’ said Frances. ‘My enquiries concern a Mr Sweetman, who used to live in Garway Road, and has been trying to trace his family.’ She glanced at Mr Jennings who sucked at his pipe, smiled, and nodded to himself.
    Nora Jennings brought cups and poured tea from a brown pot of commendable size, and fetched a small jug of milk with a muslin cover from its perch on the chilly window ledge. ‘Yes, father used to make deliveries in Garway Road, but I am sorry to say his memory is very poor nowadays, although he remembers the old times better than he does last week. He did tell me about the robbery and that poor man who was hurt. He said Mr Sweetman was a very quiet gentleman and he would never have believed that he could do such a thing.’
    ‘He is out of prison now, and called on me yesterday asking if I could find his family, and I agreed to do so,’ said Frances. ‘He has not seen them in over fourteen years. But Mrs Sweetman has just been found dead and the police came to my house and arrested him. It seems she was murdered.’
    Nora was astonished and appalled. ‘Oh what a dreadful thing to happen! Do you suspect Mr Sweetman?’
    ‘No, neither of the murder nor the robbery. I am hoping that his son and daughter may be