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in the doorway. 'The man who rang also asked for Theresa's new address. And I couldn't find the piece of paper that I'd scribbled it down on. I don't suppose, by any chance . . . ?'
    'Yes, she did give it to me. Let me think. I remember, I asked for it just as she was leaving. And she told me and I scribbled it on the pad on the telephone. It's in the hall. You'll see it as you go out.'
    'Oh, thank you so much.' Again Mrs Pargeter turned to go, and again stopped. 'I'm sorry, there's one other thing, Fiona. This really is the last one, I promise. Then I'll leave you to get on with things.'
    'No problem,' said Fiona. No, Mrs Pargeter's questions weren't a problem; compared to the problem of getting this dinner party together, everything else paled into insignificance.
    'I just wondered if you knew the name of the removal firm that Theresa used. I've a feeling they may have taken some light fittings that were meant to be left, and I want to check with them.'
    Well, it was only a small lie. The late Mr Pargeter wouldn't have minded that. He had always been a pragmatist; he didn't object to lies on principle, only when they were likely to lead to further lies and complications of consistency.
    'Yes, I remember,' said Fiona helpfully. 'Couldn't forget it, really, seeing that dirty great lorry opposite for the best part of a day. They were called Littlehaven's.'
    'Ah.'
    'I remember thinking it was an unusual name. Didn't recognise it. Certainly not one of the local firms. But I suppose she wouldn't necessarily use a firm from down here if she was moving up North.'
    No, she wouldn't, thought Mrs Pargeter. Not if she was moving up North.
    The hall was dominated by a large coatstand with a mirror, from whose hooks an assembly of Barbour coats, tweed caps and green quilted jerkins hung. In the umbrella-rack at the bottom stood a shooting-stick, a few golf clubs and a riding crop. As Fiona had promised, there was a pad of paper on a low table by the telephone. Mrs Pargeter had to turn back several pages before she came to the scrawled address.
    'Elm Trees, Bascombe Lane, Dunnington, North Yorkshire.'
    At least Theresa Cotton's lies had been consistent.
    CHAPTER 9
    It was after half-past five when Mrs Pargeter crossed from the misnamed 'High Bushes' to 'Acapulco' and, since the next stage of her investigation required another trip to the library, there was nothing more she could do that day. So she happily resigned herself to a nice dinner and an early night.
    The nice dinner was poached salmon trout, followed by profiteroles. After her peregrinations of the last few years, Mrs Pargeter found it a great pleasure to have her own kitchen to cook in again. She had never had inhibitions about preparing full meals when she was on her own; she did not subscribe to the boiled egg and cottage cheese conspiracy. The late Mr Pargeter, the nature of whose work sometimes prevented him from being with her in the evenings, had always encouraged her to eat properly.
    With the meal she drank a rather good bottle of Sancerre. That was another pleasure of the new house, having a permanent home for the excellent cellar the late Mr Pargeter had assembled.
    When she had tidied up the meal, Mrs Pargeter drank a little Armagnac and retired early to bed to sleep the dreamless sleep of the innocent.
    The same helpful librarian directed her next morning to the complete set of Yellow Pages and, after consulting the 'Removals and Storage' section of some dozen volumes, Mrs Pargeter found the name she was looking for.
    Littlehaven's were based near Worcester. Certainly a long way from the Surrey of Smithy's Loam. And not a logical step in the direction of Dunnington in North Yorkshire, even if that address had not already been discredited.
    Mrs Pargeter took down the address and phone number of the firm, and walked back to her new home.
    There was more activity on the Shopping Parade on a Saturday morning than during the week. Volvo, Peugeot and Mercedes estates were