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you?’

      ‘No, but I might of, and then wot they found’d be some’un helse’s, wouldn’t they?’

      ‘Have you ever had your fingerprints taken—or is that a rude question?’ she asked.

      ‘I’ve never been copped fer nothink, if that’s wot yer mean, mum,’ he answered.

      ‘That’s fortunate, because they’ve also found fingerprints on some of the things on my husband’s body.’

      Ben nodded gloomily. ‘There yer are! And I told ’im not ter touch it—’

      ‘Told who?’ she interrupted sharply.

      ‘Eh? Oh! A bloke ’oo come along jest arter I fahnd it in the cellar. See, that’s wot I’ve got ter tell yer abart.’ She stared at him. ‘Was one o’ the things a letter-caise?’

      ‘Yes!’

      ‘With a visitin’ card in it, and that photo of you, but no money?’

      ‘Yes, yes, but who is this person you’re talking about?’ she exclaimed, with a new anxiety in her voice. ‘Tell me quickly! I have to go and identify my husband—they’re coming back to take me there—and I must know everything before I go! Somebody came to the house after you did? Who was it? And what took you there?’

      Once more Ben noticed the direction of her glance. This time it was towards a photograph on the mantelpiece, a photograph of a good-looking man with a small dark moustache. But the glance meant little to Ben, and his mind was too occupied with other details to associate the photograph with the suitcase on the floor by the table. There was no reason why he should do so, although there was something in Mrs Wilby’s attitude he could not quite understand. You’d have thought she might have shed a few tears like?

      ‘What took me there, mum,’ be began, ‘was—well, I better go back ter the start, didn’t I? If yer’ve got ter ’ave it, I was runnin’ away from a cop arter a chap bumps inter me wot drops a jemmy, see, it wasn’t mine but the cop thort it was so I ’oofs it and slips inter this hempty ’ouse ter git away from ’im. And it was there I fahnd—wot I fahnd, and then this other bloke comes along, and we each thinks the other done it. If yer git me.’

      ‘What was he like?’

      The question was asked quietly, but Ben was too absorbed in his story to note its tenseness.

      ‘Well, mum, I ain’t much good at dessercripshun, but ’e was a big feller with big ’ands and feet, and a crooked nose, and ’e ’ad black ’air and heyebrows like a couple o’ birds’ nests. I don’t suppose you know ’im, do yer?’

      ‘No,’ she answered, and as he had missed her anxiety, so now he missed her relief. ‘Go on! What took him to the house? Was he running away, too?’

      ‘No, mum.’

      ‘Then he wasn’t the man who dropped the jemmy—’

      ‘Lummy, no, I never saw no more of ’im, but I don’t know why this hother feller come. Corse we both begun with a pack o’ lies, and when ’e tikes the money orf the body, yus, and hoffers me one o’ the notes—well, then I gits proper suspishus, and seein’ as ’ow ’e was a wrong ’un I thort I’d pertend ter be a wrong ’un, too, ter see wot more I could git aht of ’im—not meanin’ more notes, o’ corse, but infermashun. Mind yer, it was a risk, but then that’s life, ain’t it? If yer git me? Yer born ter die. Any’ow, that’s wot I done, and when ’e sez ’e knoo ’oo done the crime—’

       ‘What!’

      The anxiety that had been quelled by Ben’s description of the man returned. She tried to recover her composure while Ben blinked at her.

      ‘But, of course,’ she suggested, ‘he might—he could have said that just to put you off!’

      ‘Ter put me orf thinkin’ ’e did it ’imself? Yus, I thort o’ that,’ agreed Ben, ‘on’y sometimes yer can sorter smell when yer ’earin’ the truth, even when it’s liars wot’s tellin’ it, and I smelt ’e was torkin’ the truth that time. ’E knows, that I’d swear ter, but ’e didn’t go no further with it, ’e didn’t say ’oo it was, but soon ’e gits torkin’ abart some gime ’e’s got on, and ’ow if I went in with ’im I could do a bit o’ good ter meself—and so—well, yer see ’ow it was?’

      Mrs Wilby did not answer for a few moments. She was sitting very still, staring rigidly across the room, as though afraid to move.

      ‘Or doncher?’

      ‘I think it will be best to tell me,’ she answered at last. ‘What did you do then?’

      ‘Well, see, mum, wot I ’ad ter decide,’ replied Ben, ‘was if ter brike with ’im, or if ter go on pertendin’? I’d never learn no more if I said “Nuffin’ doin’,” but if I didn’t I might, ’speshully as ’e gives me an address ter go to where ’e’d been stayin’ and where I was ter stay meself till I ’eard from ’im agine. ’E said ’e ’ad ter go away fer a bit.’ Ben dived into a pocket. ‘This is the address wot ’e give me. ’E wrote that. And so I sez okay, and then arter ’e went I telerphoned ter the pleece, like I said, and then I come on ’ere ter you.’

      He held the paper out to her, and she took it and read its message: ‘Mrs Kenton, 46, Jewel Street, SE. This is to introduce Mr Eric Burns, a pal of mine. As you know I have to go away, and I want him to occupy my room till I come back. Ask no questions, etc. Love to Maudie. O.B.’

      She read it through two or three times, as though to memorise it, and then handed the paper back.

      ‘I thought your name was Ben,’ she said.

      ‘That’s right,’ answered Ben, ‘but ’e got callin’ me Heric fer a joke, though I never knoo wot the joke was, and then ’e tacks on Burns ter mike it complete like.’

      ‘And he is O.B.’

      ‘That proberly don’t mean no more on ’is birth certifikit than wot Eric Burns does on mine. Well, mum, there we are, so wot do I do?’

      ‘What do you want to do?’

      ‘Well, come ter that, I s’pose wot’s best.’

      ‘Best for—’

      He filled in her pause.

      ‘Fer you, mum, wouldn’t it be?’ he said. ‘I mean that’s wot I come ’ere for, ain’t it?’

      ‘I don’t understand you.’

      ‘It’s a waiste ter try. I was tryin’ ter work it aht meself once when somebody said it couldn’t be done.’

      ‘I believe they were right. But let us forget ourselves for the moment—what do you think we ought to do?’

      He noticed that it was ‘we’ this time, not ‘you’. He thought hard, so he would make no mistake.

      ‘I expeck it’s like this, mum. If we was ter go by the copybook—you know, “I must be good,” “I mustn’t tell no lies,” “I must wash arter meals,” then p’r’aps I orter tike this bit o’ paiper ter the pleece, tell ’em me story, and let ’em git on with it, never mind the risk. I’ll do that if yer say so—on’y, some’ow, I don’t think yer want ter say so.’

      ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

      ‘Ah, there yer are! I’m givin’ yer feelin’s, not reasons.’

      After an instant of hesitation she asked: ‘But—don’t you think I would want the person who killed my husband to be caught?’

      Ben’s eyes opened wide. ‘Well, nacherly, mum,’ he answered. ‘But arter wot I’ve told yer, yer may think—like me—that p’r’aps I got a better charnce o’ bringin’

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