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with cares.
    â€˜What do you mean by referring to the boy? What do you mean ? Scrapes is it? Scamping off again? Rolling his hoop under horses? Stealing apples? Such a boy for mischief! What’s he done now?’
    â€˜No. I, er, well, I am sorry to say that he—’
    The door catch snapped and a woman, whose age I put at a little above thirty, bustled in. She wore a plain dress and cap, and a wide belt around her waist to which was hooked a ring holding several keys. The two most noticeable things about her, however, were first that her face and figure were strikingly beautiful, with a strong nose, deep black hair, dark eyes and wide, full mouth; and second that she wore her left arm bandaged and in a sling of soft leather.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I was detained at the kitchen door,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Peel. I keep the house. You should not have been shown in here, you know. I cannot imagine what possessed that girl. She’s new to us, but it is no excuse.’
    I rose and bowed first to Miss Peel, then to Mrs Pimbo, and turned back to Miss Peel.
    â€˜I’m afraid I specifically asked to see Mrs Pimbo. Perhaps I intimidated the girl – unintentionally, of course. I am the Coroner, you know.’
    I took a sideways step towards her and continued in a lower voice.
    â€˜Might I have a private word with you instead, Miss Peel?’
    Compressing her lips together, the housekeeper stood aside to let me out. I bowed again to Mrs Pimbo, who was now looking placidly puzzled, and so left her. Miss Peel followed, locking the door behind us.
    â€˜You shut your mistress in?’ I asked.
    â€˜For her own good. She goes a-wandering else.’
    Miss Peel led me across the hall, along a short passage and into a smaller and more old-fashioned stone-flagged room.
    â€˜I am fortunate enough to have my own parlour in this house,’ she explained. ‘Please sit.’
    The parlour was furnished in plain style with a beechwood work-table and two upright chairs tucked under, a dresser and a couple of high-backed fireside armchairs. She gestured towards one of these and hanging my hat over its arm I settled myself there. She sat opposite me.
    â€˜You have seen the condition of Mrs Pimbo,’ she said. ‘It is quite impossible to speak sensibly with her, so I am afraid you will have to explain your business to me.’
    â€˜Do you not already know why I’ve come?’
    â€˜I have not the slightest idea.’
    â€˜So you have not heard the terrible news from town?’
    The muscles of her face tightened fractionally, and the eyebrows arched.
    â€˜No. What news is that?’
    So I told her gently that Pimbo had been found dead in his business room. I said nothing about the pistol, or his wounded head, which made her response very singular: she emitted an involuntary cry, something like a mirthless laugh, then clapped her free hand to her mouth.
    â€˜Oh! Did he murder himself?’
    â€˜What makes you ask that, Miss Peel?’
    Her eyes flashed this way and that and then looked down. She withdrew the question.
    â€˜I … well, I don’t know. I suppose he didn’t. I suppose he was taken ill.’
    â€˜Forgive me, but it so happens that he was not. It pains me to tell you, but I must. Mr Pimbo died violently, from a gunshot – a pistol.’
    â€˜Oh,’ was her only reply.
    There was a silence while the clock on her mantel ticked nine or ten times. I studied her face. It betrayed nothing. Whatever that sudden explosive sound had been – a laugh or a cry – she had subdued the emotion behind it.
    â€˜For how long have you kept house for Mr Pimbo?’ I asked at last.
    She got hold of a spring of her hair and pulled it down the length of her cheek.
    â€˜Five years. Ever since his mother began to be … as she is.’
    â€˜I wonder: had Mr Pimbo been particularly given to melancholy in recent days? Had he given any