people, then?’
‘Of course, what else would they be for?’
I picked up the crumpled paper with a few black seeds inside it.
‘What’s this good for?’
She looked at the name on it and tipped the seeds into her palm without any special concern.
‘Thornapple’s good for a lot of things. It helps stop coughs if you burn the leaves and inhale them. It’s good for burns and inflammations too, if you grind up the leaves and seeds and mix them with hog’s lard. I always kept some thornapple ointment by me.’
‘A useful thing to have around then?’
‘Oh yes, but you have to be careful with it, mind. More careful than with most of the others here.’
‘Why?’
She folded the seeds back in the paper and put it in the basket.
‘Because if you take too much of it, leaves or seeds, it’s a deadly poison. It’s much the same as belladonna.’
She stood up heavily.
‘Now, do you want me to dry those stockings or don’t you?’
Once Mrs Martley had fussed her way out, I put the jars and packages back in the basket, much as I’d found them. After that, I sat on the bed for a long time, thinking. The conclusion was that Daniel had to know. I found a dry pair of stockings, put my damp cloak back on and told Mrs Martley I’d return later. I kept Jenny’s basket under my cloak as I walked along Piccadilly. When a police officer on his beat happened to glance at me, my heart pounded as if he could see through wool and wickerwork to the black seeds inside.
At the corner by Bond Street half a dozen people were looking at a poster tied to a railing. I was walking past when my ear caught the name ‘Columbine’. The poster looked fresh from the printers, paper not yet ruckled up by damp, printing as black as tar. I read over the shoulder of a street urchin who was trying to puzzle out the words.
It went on to describe Jenny as about twenty, of medium height and striking red hair. A solicitor’s name and address were given at the bottom of the poster for anybody with information to offer.
Between there and Bloomsbury Square I saw a dozen similar posters, each with a little group of readers. One of them was on a railing just two houses away from Daniel’s lodgings, so he couldn’t have missed seeing it. I knocked on his front door and waited for what seemed like a long time before it was opened by the maid, Izzy. She looked alarmed when she saw me, as if she’d been expecting somebody else.
‘Is Mr Suter in?’
For reply, she jerked her head towards the first landing. The studio door was closed and no music was coming out of it, both unusual circumstances when Daniel was at home.
‘I’ll see myself up,’ I said.
She looked as if she wanted to protest. I felt her eyes on my back as I went upstairs and knocked on the door of the studio.
‘Who’s there?’
Daniel’s voice, sounding annoyed.
‘Liberty.’
‘Wait a minute.’
It felt like more than a minute before he opened the door. His hair was ruffled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and there were dark circles round his eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
It was hardly a hearty welcome and it looked as if he meant to keep me standing in the doorway.
‘May I please come in?’ I said. ‘We must talk about Jenny Jarvis.’
He stood aside and gestured to me to take a chair. I opened my cloak and put the basket on the table, beside his piles of music.
‘Hers?’
‘Yes. Remember I took it home? I never had the chance to give it back to her.’
It seemed as if he couldn’t take his eyes off it. I sat down.
‘You’ve seen the posters?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘They don’t look like police posters. Who do you suppose is putting them out?’
‘Rodney Hardcastle.’ He said the name like a curse.
‘You know that for sure?’
‘It’s what the town’s saying.’
‘But he hasn’t got a hundred pounds. He owes tens of thousands.’
‘By the time anybody discovers that, it will be too late. The damage will have been done.’
‘You mean Jenny will have been arrested?’ I said.
‘It’s not even true. The posters say she’s wanted for Columbine’s murder. The police haven’t said that.’
‘They want to question her. That’s not surprising in the circumstances, is it?’
I said it as gently as possible, afraid he’d flare up at me. Of all people, I didn’t want to quarrel with Daniel.
He sighed, tore his eyes away from the basket, and sat down on the piano stool.
‘Was that what you wanted to talk about, the posters?’
‘There’s something else. I opened her basket and –’
Somebody was knocking at the front door, heavily and repeatedly. Daniel’s body went stiff.
‘Who is it this time?’
We heard the door open. Izzy let out a screech. Daniel jumped up.
‘Libby, keep them out. I’ll go and –’
Heavy feet in nailed boots were coming up the stairs. There were at least two pairs and they were in a hurry. Below them, Izzy was wailing. Daniel had his hand on the door knob when the door burst open. A large police officer shouldered his way in, followed by another even larger. Daniel was thrown backwards.
‘Keep out of here,’ he shouted at them. ‘You have no right.’
‘We have reason to believe that you are harbouring a wanted fugitive,’ the first policeman said. His voice was as deep and dismal as river mud. He added, as an afterthought, ‘sir.’
As he said it, the larger policeman was trampling heavy-footed across the room. Daniel regained his balance and moved to intercept him. The policeman simply shouldered him aside. He was making for the only possible place of concealment in the studio: a tall cupboard built into an alcove, where Daniel and his friends stored music stands and piles
