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imported from Japan had encouraged her to take on some adults for evening classes in sight-reading. No, of course not, dear, we’re a little bit deaf as it is. And that was all.
    So they had no idea where she came from and no idea of where she went on the rare occasions she ventured out, but they did have an idea there was some terrible tragedy hidden deep in her past.
    This was getting him nowhere.
    â€œJust a minute, ladies,” Kramer interrupted, “let’s just stick to the facts, shall we? You say that Miss Le Roux answered an advert in the Gazette for this place. She had no references but you took her on because she seemed a polite girl.”
    â€œRight,” growled Mrs Bezuidenhout, peeved at being cut short.
    â€œOkay, so she got up at eight. She did all her own housework. Her first pupils came after school, so if she went out at all it was in the morning. She took lessons until six-thirty and occasionally after supper which was at seven. Lights out at eleven. You say she never had friends in, but how can you be sure that those who came at night were always pupils?”
    â€œBecause for a start they weren’t her type. All fortyish, smooth Johnnies, the sort who would buy themselves silly toys they wouldn’t know how to work. Besides, they always had music cases with them—see?”
    Miss Henry made a permission-to-speak sound. Kramer nodded encouragement.
    â€œWe could hear, too, of course,” she said, “we could hear them doing their scales and making such a mess of it. Same mistakes again and again.”
    â€œShe fancies she has an ear for music,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sniffed. “Deafer than I am, too.”
    â€œDid you recognise any of them?”
    â€œWe’ve already told you that Miss Le Roux had her own entrance from the lane. Never got more than a glimpse as she opened her door, and that was from the back.”
    No matter, Miss Le Roux would have kept records for tax purposes. He would get around to them later. Then a thought struck him.
    â€œDid she have any around the night before she—?”
    â€œNot been one for weeks, actually,” Miss Henry said.
    â€œAh.” Obviously electronic organs went the way of all gimmicks which threaten to delight your friends in ten easy lessons.
    â€œShe was in, though?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œCan you tell me what did happen that day?”
    â€œRing for Rebecca,” Mrs Bezuidenhout ordered, somewhat rhetorically for she herself raised her stick and beat on a brass spittoon.
    Along the passage came a shuffle of slippers two sizes too large and an elderly Zulu woman in a maid’s uniform entered the room. She drew back instinctively as she saw Kramer.
    â€œYes, he’s a policeman, you old rascal,” said Mrs Bezuiden-hout. “He wants to ask you about the little missus.”
    The servant’s fright doubled. “Rebecca take nothing in that place, baas,” she said anxiously. “True’s God, me not doing anything bad by that side.”
    Kramer greeted her courteously in Zulu: “Just tell me and the missus what happened.”
    Rebecca gabbled through it, using both official languages, her own, kitchen kaffir, and a pair of big rolling brown eyes.
    Every Monday morning she went up very early to the cottage and, using her employer’s master key, removed the dustbin for the rubbish collectors. On the previous Monday, she had gone in to find the washing-up still in the sink, and one plate of the stove red hot. The little missus had always been very clean and most particular about switching things off, so she suspected something was amiss immediately. She called out once or twice and tiptoed through to the bedroom to see if in fact the little missus was at home. She was. Dead.
    â€œCame wailing down here as if the devil himself was after her,” Mrs Bezuidenhout cut in. “Of course I didn’t believe the old bag. Got Henry to take me up