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sash-windowed rooms. It was a parlour, though it was easy to see why a man like Pimbo would want it referred to as a ‘salon’, for it was papered all over, and furnished according to the mode – that is, more sparsely than Elizabeth and I would consider homelike. A pair of settees was ranged facing each other on either side of the fireplace with a low tea-table of walnut wood between them; an escritoire of the most fashionable design stood between the windows; and a brass-faced clock in a tall inlaid case was mounted against the wall opposite the fire, giving out a sonorous tock.
    By the time I had taken all this in, the maid had silently made herself scarce. Alone in the room, old Mrs Pimbo stood before the clock and was examining it intently with her eyes. Not having previously met this evidently retiring lady, I found her to be small and stout, and dressed in the fashion of two reigns ago. I put her age at about sixty-five.
    I announced myself.
    â€˜Good day, Mrs Pimbo. I am Titus Cragg, Coroner of Preston.’
    Though she heard my words, Mrs Pimbo did not turn to greet me. Her attention remained fixed on the clock.
    â€˜I cannot imagine who has brought this in here, this … machine?’ she asked in a faint, wondering tone. ‘Was it you?’
    I moved a little way into the room.
    â€˜No, madam. Your son, perhaps. Is it newly bought? It is certainly handsome.’
    â€˜You say it is handsome? I do not. I don’t like it. I don’t understand it. What did you say it is for?’
    â€˜Surely you know that it is a clock!’ I said.
    â€˜A clock? Is that what you call it? A clock. A clock.’
    She was musing over the word, as if testing its soundness.
    â€˜Yes,’ I said, ‘for telling you the time, you know.’
    I at once realized my mistake in persisting with this. Someone who does not know a clock when she sees it is unlikely to benefit from having the matter explained.
    â€˜For telling me the time?’ she repeated.
    â€˜Yes.’
    At last she turned and acknowledged my presence.
    â€˜So you! Who are you? What’s your name?’
    â€˜It’s Titus Cragg, madam,’ I repeated. ‘I am the Coroner.’
    â€˜And have you come to tell me the time?’
    â€˜Not exactly. I—’
    â€˜Fiddlesticks! What’s the use of telling the time, if not exactly?’
    The transition from remoteness to sharpness in her tone disconcerted me.
    â€˜What I meant was—’
    â€˜No, Sir! No! Don’t excuse yourself! I do not like the time. I do not like being told it, either exactly or, or … or not. So kindly be off with you!’
    She raised her arms and showed me the flat of her hands, as if to ward off an evil spirit. Then she spun around and went towards the fire, where she perched on one of the settees and sat silent for several seconds with her gaze resting on her knees, seeming to compose herself. When she raised her eyes again, she took in my presence anew, as if I had just entered the room.
    â€˜Oh! A stranger! Hello. And who are you?’
    â€˜Cragg, Titus Cragg,’ I told her for the third time, moving now to sit on the facing settee. I thought that I may as well broach my business, however unexpected the result may be. ‘I have come about your son.’
    She shook her head.
    â€˜My son. He’s dead.’
    â€˜Yes. I am very sorry.’
    â€˜Don’t be. It was the smallpox, you see, but so long ago and he was only a young man, unmarried as yet.’
    â€˜No, madam, I mean Phillip Pimbo, the goldsmith.’
    â€˜Oh! Ha! The goldsmith, you say? I suppose that is right. My husband is certainly a merchant in gold, jewels and such stuff. All trinkets and trumpery! I wanted a gentleman to marry but I only got a bauble-monger.’
    â€˜Forgive me once more, I am referring to your son Phillip.’
    â€˜The boy, is it?’
    Her voice became peevish, as of one overburdened