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don’t know what the world’s coming to. Have you seen his motor?’
    ‘I have,’ replied Seth Dobson. ‘Just a big piece of swank on four wheels.’ He leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘I’ve heard some say as he had nowt
as a lad. No back in his trousers, no boots on his feet.’
    ‘Eeh,’ said Mona, joining the other two in their huddle. ‘You don’t say.’
    ‘I do say,’ Mr Dobson said emphatically. ‘You can tell he’s new to money, like. There’s two ways they can go, you see. Now, one type’ll take hold and spend
the lot before you can say knife. But the other kind – and he’s one of them – looks after every brass farthing as if it were a king’s ransom.’
    ‘Tight,’ pronounced Mona.
    ‘A right Scrooge,’ agreed Tilly.
    The undertaker looked over his shoulder. ‘Then there’s the cellar.’ He straightened, smoothed his waistcoat, nodded three times, then bent his head again. ‘Funny
goings-on,’ he whispered.
    ‘You what?’ Tilly’s quadruple chin went into overdrive as she glanced furtively about the room. ‘There isn’t no cellar round here,’ she said eventually.
‘Unless it’s where they keep the ale in the Red Lion.’
    ‘Not here,’ said Mr Dobson. ‘Up yonder. Pendleton Grange.’
    ‘Go on,’ urged Mona.
    ‘Nay, I’m saying nowt,’ answered the dark-clad man.
    Tilly grabbed his hand, then released it suddenly. The trouble with an undertaker was that you could never work out where his hands had been, but imagination filled in the gaps. ‘Hey,
you’re not leaving us here with the tale half told. That’d keep me awake all night, wondering about doings in a cellar.’
    ‘Me and all.’ Mona was not to be outdone in the gossip stakes.
    Dobson continued reluctant. ‘It’s only summat and nowt.’
    ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ challenged Tilly.
    ‘Me and all.’ Mona pointed a fat finger at the customer.
    ‘I don’t know as I should rightly say. A man in my profession has to be discreet, same as a doctor or a lawyer.’ He paused for effect. ‘Only a friend of mine has a lass
who works for Mulligan – a sleeping-in job. Mary, she’s called. She comes home on her days off and she . . . well . . . lets a few things slip.’
    ‘Does she?’ Tilly’s eyebrows were almost in her hairline. ‘What sort of things?’
    ‘Cellar.’ Seth Dobson’s voice was almost inaudible.
    ‘What about the cellar?’ Tilly was getting cross. It was nearly closing time, and this fellow was getting on her nerves. He was a miserable-looking bloke, with a squint. Thin as a
rake, he was every inch the professional mourner, face like a smacked bum, stringy neck, not a muscle to brag about. And his skin was yellow like old paper, as if he was nearly dead himself.
    He inclined his head even further. ‘Well, the family – the proper family – used to keep wine in a part of it. Big house, big cellar, so most of it’s been empty except for
rubbish – worn-out furniture and that. Then there’s coal at the back, near the kitchen. But now, nobody knows what’s going on down there. First thing every morning, his nibs goes
down for about an hour, then he comes back up, locks the door, wears the key on a chain round his neck.’
    Mona shivered. ‘Just once a day?’
    ‘No,’ answered Dobson. ‘Sometimes it’s twice, sometimes three or four times.’
    ‘What does he do in there?’ asked Tilly.
    Mona clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘If folk could see through doors, happen there’d be an answer.’ She turned her attention to Mr Dobson. ‘Can they hear anything while
he’s down there?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he replied.
    ‘Ooh, heck,’ exclaimed Tilly. ‘He could have a mad wife locked up – like that feller in Jane Eyre , him that ended up burnt.’
    ‘Bigamist, he were.’ Mona’s tone was disapproving.
    ‘Mulligan might be a mad scientist doing experiments on animals,’ offered Tilly. ‘Or on people.’
    ‘They’d scream,’ scoffed