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productions—she’d of course seen dozens of plays he’d only read, or read about until long after Cousin Blue had gone sighing off to bed. There had been no further sign of Uncle Vole. Andrew hadn’t told her what had happened in the dining-room. As soon as he got home he would send her a letter, explaining.
    When his clothes were warm he eased himself out of his pyjama bottoms and into pants, socks and trousers. Then the top half. It was a game, but also an exercise in muscular control. A watcher in the room must not be aware what you were up to, so you must make only the visible movements natural to a sleeper, including getting your head right under the blankets in order to push it through the neck of your vest. He varied the imaginary play from which the scene came. This time he was in a prison hospital, about to escape and prove his own innocence …
    He flung back the bedclothes and sprang forth. Phee, it was cold! Uncle Vole had sneered at Fawley Street, but all his millions couldn’t buy that snugness. Andrew eased back the heavy curtain. Still almost dark … But now from somewhere down in the house he heard a rhythmic click and clump. A carpet sweeper. The servants were up. There’d be someone he could ask about food. He switched on the bedside light, stuffed his pyjamas into his already-packed suitcase, laced his shoes, crept out. None of the door-fittings rattled. Not a plank creaked, nor any of the treads in the staircase. He used the banister to feel his way.
    A yellow light shone in the main downstairs corridor, off which all the big rooms opened. Beneath it an old woman was working the sweeper, some kind of housemaid, though she wasn’t wearing the smart black-and-white uniform as the other old girl had who’d shown him his room yesterday. Or perhaps she was, only it was hidden beneath her thick tweed overcoat and shawl. Her frosted breath rose in a cloud as she thumped the sweeper to and fro. Intent on her work she didn’t notice his approach.
    â€œGood morning,” he said.
    She looked up—wispy hair, puckered lips, sunken pale cheeks. She glanced at the suitcase.
    â€œGoing, then? Thought you was here till Monday.”
    She wasn’t wearing her dentures.
    â€œSir Arnold changed his mind.”
    â€œHow many’d he had?”
    She tilted an imaginary glass to her lips.
    â€œI was wondering if there’s any hope of a lift to the village.”
    â€œNo bus, Tuesdays.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œJack’s taking Hazel down for the choir-treat, mind you. Suppose you’ll be wanting early breakfast. They don’t have it till nine, upstairs.”
    â€œWell …”
    â€œYou’ll have to see Mrs McHealy. Green baize door and down the stairs. Follow your nose—she’s baking.”
    The door was next to the dining-room. Just inside it on the left was what looked like a pantry, with a scrubbed table bearing compartmented trays of cutlery, cruets, candlesticks, glasses, decanters. Beyond that a wide flight of stairs with slate treads descended, apparently underground. At the bottom a lino-floored corridor led left and right. The smell of baking bread was easy to trace. He followed it along into a large square room with a huge Aga cooker on the further side, and on the right two tall barred windows, their glass reflecting the room because of the dark outside. So he wasn’t in the bowels of the earth—the house must stand on a hill which sloped away at the back.
    In the middle of the room was a long scrubbed table at which sat the man who had driven the pony-trap last night, with a steaming mug in front of him. He was older than Andrew had realized in the dark, with a gipsy-looking face, very coarse grey hair and strong brows, a slight hunch to his shoulders. He looked up as Andrew came through the door and coughed unconvincingly. The woman standing at the Aga turned at the signal.
    â€œGood morning,