“She’s keener than keen. She’s got a whole team at Charing Cross Hospital who can’t wait to get their surgical gloves on them.”
“Splendid.”
“And while they’re running the medical tests, I’m going to do a bit more background research to see if the story holds water.”
“Are you going to be able to fit all this in around your regular duties, or are you looking to drop something?”
Roy’s tone was neutral, but she knew the answer that was expected.
“No. I’m aiming to fit it all in.”
“Good chap. Everything else all right chez Swinney? How’s Mother?”
He often asked after her, though they’d never met. Jean had told him some stories of her foibles over the years and he now had her fixed in his mind as a “character.” If they ever did meet he would be disappointed. She was able to quell any stirrings of disloyalty by reasoning that the “Mother” described was almost a work of fiction, not unlike the imaginary friends of early childhood.
“Mother is finding the warm weather a trial.”
“But I thought it was cold weather she didn’t like?”
“Yes it is. Also windy weather. For someone confined to the house, she has quite particular views on the subject.”
Roy laughed, delighted. “I imagine her as an orchid.”
“But she will be in a good temper tonight because there are strawberries for tea.”
“Well, give her my best,” said Roy.
4
H. R. Tilbury Jeweler （Secondhand and Antique—Repairs—Best Prices Paid） was in one of those narrow streets north of the Strand, between a tobacconist and a shop selling antiquarian books and sheet music. The name was picked out in elegant gold lettering against the bottle-green paintwork.
Through the leaded panes of the door Jean could see that there was just one customer, in conversation with the man behind the counter. She was evidently buying a watch or having a new strap fitted, as she emerged a few moments later, turning her wrist this way and that to see how it looked. Jean waited for her to head up the street before entering the shop, setting the bell above the door jangling.
The proprietor had retreated into his workroom, leaving the adjoining door open, and Jean could see him sitting at a bench above which racks of tools were neatly arranged. At the sound of the bell he looked up and laid aside the file he had been holding.
The interior of the shop was tiny. Surrounded on three sides by glass display cabinets, Jean felt as though she filled all the remaining space and was liable to smash something if she made any sudden movement.
“I’m looking for Howard Tilbury,” she said, not quite convinced that the man who now stood before her could be the husband of the pretty young woman with the nipped-in waist and the Deanna Durbin hair.
He was thin and stooped and balding; what remained of his hair was gray. He was dressed on the hottest day of the year so far in a tweed jacket, flannel trousers, hand-knitted pullover, shirt and tie and, in all probability, full-length combinations underneath. But when Jean introduced herself he stood a little straighter and smiled and for a moment didn’t look quite so old.
“Oh, yes, you’re the lady my wife was telling me about.” They shook hands across the counter and he added with a worried frown, “Was I supposed to be expecting you today?”
“Not at all. I was just passing, so I thought I’d call in. Could you spare me a moment or two between customers?”
He looked wary but she had intended no irony.
“Tuesday is a slow day for customers. I don’t know why. So I mostly do repairs. We could sit in the workshop.” He unlatched the countertop between two cabinets to allow her through.
“If you’re sure,” Jean said, glancing back at the unattended valuables in the window as he showed her into the workshop, which was hardly more spacious.
“The bell will ring if anyone comes in and I’ll leave the door open.”
Full of apologies for the lack of comforts, he offered her a sagging green armchair in one corner. When she sat in it the arms were level with the tops of her ears, the seat inches from the ground. Her long legs sprawled across the floor between them, as ungainly as a fallen horse. The only other seat, which Mr. Tilbury now took, was the revolving stool at the bench where he had just been working. Beside her on a low table was an electric hotplate, kettle, cup, the remains of a sandwich in a greaseproof paper wrapping and a skinny apple core. He whisked the debris away and threw it into a wastebasket under the bench.