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I wasn’t certain if her words were simply polite, but her eyes, as her gaze held mine, were earnest.

“Well,” I said, taking a chance. “Is there any way one of you can look in on Joanna? I worry that the police will badger her. I have tried to get word to Mr. McAdam, but—”

“He is elusive, as always?” Cynthia finished. “Never fear, Mrs. H. We’ll make certain your friend is all right.”

I had no idea what Joanna would make of Miss Townsend or Cynthia descending on her, but I could not go myself until Thursday. I doubted Mr. Davis would be convinced to cover for me every night.

I gave them Joanna’s exact address, then scribbled a note to Joanna on a page torn from my notebook. Cynthia pocketed the folded paper as she rose from the table, the arms of her frock now well dusted with flour.

“I will make certain she doesn’t fuss over us,” Cynthia promised. “She and her little ones will be the ones fussed over.”

Miss Townsend sent me a reassuring glance as she ushered Cynthia out, brushing off the backs of Cynthia’s arms as they went.

Tess, who’d faded into the background, in awe of Miss Townsend, returned to the table. “Must be ever so nice to be rich and beautiful, mustn’t it, Mrs. H.?”

“You are quite comely, Tess,” I said, taking up a rag to scrub off the table. “And if you work very, very hard, you might become rich. It happens.”

Tess burst into laughter. “Now you are teasing me, Mrs. H. I’ll come down to work tomorrow in a tiara, shall I?”

I’d spoken the truth as I saw it, but I was glad, in my low spirits, that one of us could laugh.

* * *

I heard nothing from anybody until after I’d sent up supper and began preparations for breakfast.

Mr. Davis, as he’d promised, had brought me the newspapers after Mr. Bywater, and then Mr. Davis, had read them through. As much as I’d scoured them, however, I’d found only one tiny mention of the murder, and that in a back page of theTimes.

A kerfuffle in the City, in which one jealous clerk beat another over the head, the short article read.A shame and a tragedy for the dead man. Police have arrested the culprit, who will soon go to his just reward.

No names, no mention of Daalman’s Bank. The financial papers spoke of Daalman’s, but only in passing, as a firm who were underwriting an overseas venture of a shipping company beginning next month.

Odd, because journalists in London were very good at flinging all kinds of dirt at everyone, risking libel in doing so. The fact that they’d said very little of this murder, in the middle of a highly respected bank, was amazing. I imagined Miss Swann turning away the reporters with her quiet coolness, them slinking off into the fog.

I returned the papers to Mr. Davis with thanks, and he offered to bring me more tomorrow. I could see he was curiousas to what I was looking for, and if things did not resolve themselves soon, I would recruit his assistance.

I was in the middle of mixing up the bread dough for tomorrow when Elsie left her sink and approached me.

“Bloke asking for ya, Mrs. Holloway,” she told me. “Said he’d wait for you upstairs.” She poked her finger upward.

Since the man had presumably come to the back door, I knew she meant he’d be on the street, not in a ground-floor sitting room. He wasn’t Daniel or James, because Elsie would have said so if it were either of them.

“What bloke? Did he give you a name?”

“No, ma’am.” Elsie stepped closer to me. “I didn’t like the look of him, truth to tell.”

I’d thought perhaps it was Lewis come with a message, but Lewis, while rough about the edges, was friendly enough.

“Well, I’d best go see what he wants.” I hung up my apron, pulled on my coat, and took up my basket of scraps. I’d be going upstairs to distribute them about this time anyway.

The person leaning back on the railing, his elbows resting insolently on top of it, was unknown to me. He was thin, but I sensed wiry strength under his thick wool coat. He was only a few inches taller than me, with light-colored hair combed neatly under his cap, and blue eyes that held plenty of ice.

Like Joanna, I recognized a villain when I saw one. Clutching my basket before me like shield, I approached him.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

His eyes flickered, as though he’d expected me to approach fearfully, asking in a timid voice if he was the one who wanted to see me. I’d give him none of that.

“Name’s Jarrett,” the man said. “Ben Jarrett. Sam Millburn is me best mate. And you, love, are going to help me extricate him.”