'But you knew what she did? How she made her money?'

'Eventually I found out. And I told her she'd have to leave. I wasn't going to put up with that. And she agreed, said that in a short while she'd go. She just wanted to stay until the end of the month. Then she was going to look for something much better.'

'I thought you said she didn't even pay the rent on this place.'

'Nor did she. But she said she had friends who would look after her. I wish they'd looked after her while she was in my flat, that's all.'

'And who were these friends? Did you ever find out?'

'They didn't exist. It was just a story. She thought I was a proper fool; she'd have said anything to keep me quiet. And I did, more fool me.'

'What was she like?'

'Old.'

'I know that. I mean, did you like her when you first met her?'

'Why do you want to know? You come here, asking these questions, but you haven't said why. I've had enough trouble from all this . . .'

'I quite appreciate that, sir,' I said. 'And there is no sinister reason, I assure you. But I am helping a friend who became entangled with this woman. He is a trusting man, a bit like yourself, but very much more innocent. He fears that some of the things he said . . .'

Philpot nodded. Shame and embarrassment were things he understood all too well. 'Although I think that anyone who goes to someone like that . . .'

'I quite agree. I quite agree. And so does he, now. But, you see he lost his wife in a tragic accident, and has grieved ever since. She was all the world to him, and he never recovered. He allowed himself to think that maybe – just maybe – he might be able to have one last word with her.'

'Well, she would have seen him coming, that's for sure,' said Philpot, although not without sympathy. 'She would have had the money out of his pocket in two seconds, and told him anything he wanted to hear in return, I've no doubt.'

'Precisely,' I said. 'Exactly what happened. He feels deceived and angry. Until he saw the stories in the newspapers he believed he was talking to his dear departed, and contented himself that all was well with her. He felt happy for the first time in years.'

'Ah, these newspapers,' said Philpot, shaking his head. 'They should be ashamed of themselves.'

I agreed. 'And now,' I continued, 'all he wants is that people should not know of his foolishness, so he can grieve once more without being laughed at.'

That shook Philpot to the core. A good man, able to sympathise with others. To be laughed at was the worst humiliation of all. 'I see, I see,' he said. 'Yes, of course he would want that. Well, tell me your questions.'

'Well, what I'd like to know is if anyone saw him, coming and going to these – ah – séances. He is of average size, grey hair, well dressed, very distinguished-looking. Look; I have his photograph.'

I took out the photograph of Ravenscliff; Philpot looked, stroked his moustache with thumb and forefinger and thought for a moment. Then he nodded. 'I do remember him,' he said. 'He came a couple of times, as I recall. He was so much better dressed than most of the people who went up the stairs. Very handsome umbrella he had; German, with a hand-carved handle of mahogany.'

Since he obviously warmed to any subject that had an umbrella in it, I continued to press, in a gentle way.

'There you are! You noticed his umbrella. And that is one of the things that he asked me to look into. You see, the last time he came, he was so overcome by what he thought were his wife's words, that he rushed out and left his umbrella behind!'

'He didn't!'

'Yes. So he asked me, if at all possible, if I could recover it. He only took it with him because Madame Boninska said it would help summon the spirits if there was something she had touched in the room.'

Philpot understood immediately, and was shocked by the sacrilege. 'You must go and look,' he said immediately. 'I insist.'

'That is kind of you. I wanted to ask, but . . .'

'I understand perfectly. Poor man. Here, take these keys, and go and look for it . . .'

I went out of the shop door into the fresh air – or as fresh as the air near Tottenham Court Road ever became – and walked up the stairs in the little passage next door. The flat was oppressive, and dark and gloomy, and would have been even if a murder had not been committed there. I opened the curtains and then opened the windows as well. Everything was neat and tidy though the general appearance was thoroughly bizarre. Stuffed animals; prints on the wall of psychic events. Odd pieces of equipment and furniture. Lots of black velvet.

I wasn't interested in any of it. Immediately I started going through drawers, looking under beds and mattresses, down the sides of chairs, under furniture. Any scrap of paper, or notebook, or strongbox or photograph. Anything at all would do. An address book, old railway ticket, deed or document. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Which was not right. Everybody accumulates something. Even an old bus ticket. But in this place there was not a single scrap. Which made me wonder. It had probably been the police, of course; I would have to check, but I had never come across a police investigation where they had taken everything away like that.

'Have you found it?'

'What?'

'The umbrella. Have you found it?' It was Philpot, poking his head reluctantly round the door.

'Oh. No, I'm afraid not. It's gone. I'm sorry to have been so long, but I found this room very oppressive. I think I looked everywhere twice because I couldn't keep my mind on things.'

Philpot found this sensitivity unbecoming and said nothing. I followed him down the stairs and into the street. 'Gloomy place,' I said. 'But it will be perfectly pleasant once it's cleaned up. Why not get a rag-and-bone man to come and take everything away? Open the windows for a week. Get in a painter. Everyone will forget soon enough about all this.'

Philpot was grateful for the reassurance, but shook his head. 'Not yet,' he said. 'I can't think of it yet. I'll take your advice soon enough, though.'

'And no news of the girl? What was her name?'

'Mary. No. Vanished, she has. I think I was more shocked to learn what she was than anything . . .' He lowered his voice and eyes as he thought about her.

'You never knew where she came from?'

'The police asked me. "Did she tell you where she lived?" No, she didn't. Of course, I knew where she came from, but they weren't interested. "Facts, Mr Philpot," they said. "Just keep to the facts."'

'So how do you know?'

'The way she talked, of course. She was brought up in Shoreditch. Now, I'm not saying she lived there . . .'

CHAPTER 20

It was time to summon the runners. I went back to the newspaper offices for the first time since I had resigned, and asked at the reception desk if the boys were about. Some of them were in Dragon Court, a mouldy, dank little square just over the road which was surrounded by seemingly abandoned buildings. Few of them had any glass left in the windows; the boys had broken most of it playing football or cricket, which is what they did when they were waiting for a job. Three of them were there; one was hopeless, a mournful character of small intelligence and no initiative whatsoever. Pale and pimply with an air of being underfed and neglected. Wearing clothes two sizes too big for him. One, Derrick, was reliable, and the cleverest grew up to become a highly successful cat-burglar.

'Listen, boys,' I said. 'I've got a job for you. Twice the usual rates, and a bonus of a guinea for the one who succeeds.' I had learned from Elizabeth that if you want instant obedience with no argument, you pay, and pay so handsomely it takes the breath away. None of these boys, I suspected, had ever even seen a guinea before. The very idea of one made them go quiet and reverential.