Oates politely.

“Yes, indeed, and it was the same with the jam. Pots and pots of it, but the strawberry and raspberry were only for the elders. All the children had to eat was rhubarb, or ginger-and-marrow… . How cruel we grown-ups were then.”

“Not you. You should say ‘them grown-ups.’”

“‘Them grown-ups,’” repeated Helen meekly, accepting the correction. “I’ve come to invite myself to tea, as your husband is away.”

“And you’re welcome.” Mrs. Oates rose to get down fresh china from the Welsh dresser. “I see as how you know the tricks of the trade. You want a brown pot to draw the flavor from the leaves. I’ll get out the drawingroom cake for you.”

“Shop-cake? Not on your life. I want kitchen doughcake… . You don’t know how all this appeals to me, Mrs. Oates. I was thinking of this, about an hour ago, in very different circumstances.”

She looked around her with appreciative eyes. The kitchen was a huge room, with an uneven floor, and corners where shadows collected. There was no white enamel, no glass-fronted cabinet, no refrigerator; yet the shabby hearth-rug and broken basket-chairs looked homely and comfortable in the glow from the range.

“What an enormous cavern,” said Helen. “It must make a lot of work for you and your husband.”

“Oh, it don’t worry Oates.” Mrs. Oates’ voice was bitter.

“All the more places for him to muck up, and me to cleanup after him.”’

“It looks fine. All the same, Miss Warren would have a fit if she saw there were no shutters.”

As she spoke, Helen glanced at the small windows, sethigh up in the walls. They were on a level with the garden, and through the mud-speckled glass, she could see a faint stir of darkness, as the bushes moved in the wind.

“It’s only just turned dark,” said Mrs. Oates. “They can wait till I’ve finished my tea.” “But don’t you feel nervous, down here all by yourself?”

“D’you mean him?” Mrs. Oates’ voice was scornful.

“No, miss I’ve seen too many work-shy men to be scared of anything in trousers. If he tried any of his funny business on me, I’d soon sock him in the jaw.”

“But there is a murderer,” Helen reminded her.

“He’s not likely to trouble us. It’s like the Irish Sweep; someone wins it, but it’s never you and never me.”

They were consoling words and made Helen feel safe and comfortable as she crunched her toast. The grandfather clock ticked pleasantly and the ginger cat purred on the best patch of rug.

Suddenly she felt in the mood for a thrill.

“I wish you would tell me about the murders,” she said. Mrs. Oates stared at her in surprise.

“Why, they was in all the newspapers,” she said. “Can’t you read?”

“I naturally keep up with all the important things,” Helen explained. “But I’ve never been interested in crime.