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with butter. It was warm in the kitchen; there was a pile of freshly ironed garments on the dresser beside a vase of cherry blossom, and a smell of baking hung in the air.
    ‘Watch her!’ warned Andrew, as Miranda set off across the room. ‘She grabs things.’
    On Patrick’s last visit, his niece had been imprisoned in a play-pen when Jane was busy; now she seemed perilously free to roam at will.
    ‘What’s happened to her cage?’ he asked.
    ‘She grew out of it,’ Andrew said. ‘She screamed if she was put in it. You have to watch her all the time.’
    It was true. Patrick snatched her back just as she caught hold of the ironing-board which would have collapsed on top of her, and held her securely until Jane returned with the newspaper.
    ‘This child’s not safe, left loose,’ he said.
    ‘Andrew’s a good watchdog,’ said Jane.
    ‘But you can’t let her out of your sight for a minute,’ said Patrick.
    ‘You can when she’s asleep,’ Jane said.
    ‘You must get exhausted,’ said Patrick, for the first time dimly comprehending the demands made by a young family.
    ‘Oh, she plays for hours,’ Jane said. ‘She’s very good. Here, Miranda, let Patrick eat his lunch. You go back to your bricks.’
    Reluctantly, muttering to herself on a crooning note, Miranda obeyed, and Jane handed Patrick the paper.
    ‘Here it is. This is Monday’s,’ she said.
    ‘Ah, good. Bless you. I thought this would be the easiest way to get hold of it,’ said Patrick artlessly.
    ‘So that’s why you graced us with this visit. I had wondered,’ said Jane, lifting down the iron and plugging it in once more. ‘What’s this newsworthy item that isn’t in The Times, then?’
    ‘I’ll show you, if I can find it,’ said Patrick, and looked at the columns on the front page while he continued to eat. ‘I should think it will be somewhere inside.’
    There was silence for some minutes while he glanced through the pages, pausing to read the reports on the Midlands art robbery; a photograph showed the owner lamenting his loss and police investigations were continuing.
    ‘Ah, here we are,’ Patrick said at last. ‘There, Jane. Didn’t you notice it?’ And he pointed to a few lines at the foot of the centre page.
    Jane came over to read it.
     
    A body found in the Thames on Friday night has been identified as being that of the actor Sam Irwin. Mr Irwin, 44, was currently appearing in Macbeth at the Fantasy Theatre
     
    ran the item.
    ‘Oh! But that’s your friend! The man you met in Greutz!’ she exclaimed.
    ‘What is it? Can I see?’ demanded Andrew, coming round the table to have a look.
    ‘It’s nothing you’d be interested in,’ said Patrick hastily.
    ‘A friend of Patrick’s has had an accident,’ Jane told him.
    ‘Oh! Is he dead?’
    Andrew’s bluntness disconcerted Patrick.
    ‘Er—yes, he is,’ he replied.
    ‘Car?’
    ‘No. He fell in the river.’
    ‘I can swim,’ said Andrew. ‘A bit, that is,’ he qualified.
    ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Patrick.
    ‘Out, now. Into the garden with you both,’ said Jane briskly.
    ‘Let me just finish this bit,’ said Andrew, carefully filling in the ear of a tiger in the book before him.
    ‘Come on, Miranda, let’s get your boots on,’ said Jane. ‘You can go out and rake the grass for Daddy.’
    Patrick watched while the children were bundled into anoraks and rubber boots and turned out into the garden. Jane closed the gate to the road.
    ‘It’s comparatively safe now,’ she said. ‘Andrew is very sensible. He keeps an eye on her. Luckily she loves dragging that toy rake up and down. I’ll make some coffee. Have you had enough to eat?’
    ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Patrick.
    ‘What is all this about Sam Irwin?’ Jane asked. ‘I never noticed that piece in the paper. But it might not have meant anything to me, even if I had. They don’t say much about him, do they?’
    ‘Perhaps there will be more after the final inquest,’ Patrick said.