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her pocket and produced a crumpled handkerchief. ‘Mr Quincey,’ she whispered, dabbing at her face.
    Von waited till she’d got herself under control. ‘We need to establish certain facts, Mrs Deacon. Can you tell us, as accurately as you can, when you discovered Mr Quincey’s body?’
    Mrs Deacon blew her nose loudly. ‘Can’t be precise but it was about seven o’clock. That’s when I get up. I popped outside to buy the morning paper.’
    ‘In your night clothes?’ said Steve, surprise in his voice.
    Her hand flew to her neck. ‘The newsagents is just round the corner.’
    Von shot Steve a warning look. ‘And then?’ she said.
    ‘I happened to glance up at Mr Quincey’s window. I’d noticed yesterday that the curtains were drawn, see. All day. It made me wonder.’
    ‘Was the window open?’
    ‘Never is. Got a broken hinge.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I went upstairs and knocked on his door. When there was no reply, I went inside.’
    ‘So the door was unlocked?’
    She nodded. ‘And that was when I saw poor Mr Quincey. It was terrible, him lying there like that. It made me come over all dizzy. I closed the door and came downstairs and called the police. I didn’t touch nothing. I know how important it is not to disturb a crime scene.’
    ‘Was anything missing?’ Von said, wondering how anyone could tell in the mess they found in the room. But her mother had been a landlady before she married, and Von knew that landladies can be extraordinarily observant.
    ‘Didn’t look,’ Mrs Deacon was saying. ‘Soon as I saw the body, I came away. The clothes on the floor, though, that wasn’t like Mr Quincey. He was neater than that.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Was he robbed, then?’
    ‘We don’t know, Mrs Deacon.’
    ‘And you didn’t go into the bathroom?’ said Steve.
    ‘I’ve just said I haven’t. Why are you asking?’
    He looked up from his notebook. ‘We noticed the mirror was broken, and wondered whether the killer might have done it.’
    ‘It’s been like that for years. You can’t get good tradesmen round here for love nor money,’ she added defensively.
    ‘Do you know whether anyone entered the room either before or after you discovered Mr Quincey’s body?’ said Von.
    ‘They could have. As I said, the room was unlocked. I didn’tsee no-one, but I was out for part of yesterday.’
    ‘Yesterday was Wednesday. What about the day before? Did you see the curtains drawn then?’
    ‘Can’t say that I did, but then, I didn’t look. I saw Mr Quincey at breakfast on the Tuesday. That was the last time I laid eyes on him.’ The tears again.
    ‘Did Mr Quincey always take breakfast here?’ Von said gently.
    Mrs Deacon drew the dressing gown more tightly to her neck. ‘Course he did. I do a good breakfast, I do. Best in this street. And you can write that down,’ she nodded to Steve.
    ‘So, weren’t you suspicious when you didn’t see him at breakfast yesterday? Wednesday?’
    ‘Well, he occasionally has’ – she stiffened – ‘overnight guests. When that happens, they don’t come down to breakfast.’
    ‘Could you describe any of them?’
    ‘Don’t see them. But I hear them come in.’ She smiled craftily. ‘After all these years as a landlady, I can tell how many feet are climbing the steps without having to see. And whether they’re men or women.’ She settled herself into the sofa. ‘Mr Quincey was a beau viveur , as those Frenchies say. But that’s what you’d expect. He was an important man. Always entertaining visitors.’
    ‘Did he have visitors on Tuesday evening?’
    ‘Can’t say. Was out myself at the bingo. Left at about five and didn’t get back till eleven.’
    ‘How often did Mr Quincey have overnight guests?’ said Steve.
    Mrs Deacon pulled the gown to her throat. ‘Often enough, him being such a good-looking feller. Mind you, overnight guests are against the house rules. But I usually let my tenants off provided they’re quiet.’
    So Max