I was in the middle of writing up the story of Merrily and the perambulator when there came a knock at my door. It was not time for dinner, so I was surprised; Judith had never interrupted my work before.

"Would you come to the drawing room?" she asked. "Dr. Clifton is here. He would like a word with you."

As I entered the room, the man I had already seen arriving at the house rose to his feet. I am no good at shaking hands, so I was glad when he seemed to decide not to offer me his, but it left us at a loss to find some other way to start.

"You are Miss Winter's biographer, I understand?"

"I'm not sure."

"Not sure?" "If she is telling me the truth, then I am her biographer. Otherwise I am just an amanuensis." "Hmm." He paused. "Does it matter?" "To whom?" "To you." I didn't know, but I knew his question was impertinent, so I didn't answer it. "You are Miss Winter's doctor, I suppose?" "I am." "Why have you asked to see me?" "It is Miss Winter, actually, who has asked me to see you. She wants me to make sure you are fully aware of her state of health." "I see." With unflinching, scientific clarity, he proceeded to his explanation.

In a few words he told me the name of the illness that was killing her, the symptoms she suffered, the degree of her pain and the hours of the day at which it was most and least effectively masked by the drugs. He mentioned a number of other conditions she suffered from, serious enough in themselves to kill her, except that the other disease was going to get there first. And he set out, as far as he was able, the likely progression of the illness, the need to ration the increases in dosage in order to have something in reserve for later, when, as he put it, she would really need it.

"How long?" I asked, when his explanation came to an end.

"I can't tell you. Another person would have succumbed already. Miss Winter is made of strong stuff. And since you have been here-" He broke off with the air of someone who finds himself inadvertently on the brink of breaking a confidence.

"Since / have been here…?"

He looked at me and seemed to wonder, then made up his mind. "Since you have been here, she seems to be managing a little better. She says it is the anesthetic qualities of storytelling."

I was not sure what to make of this. Before I could examine my thoughts, the doctor was continuing. "I understand you are going away… " "Is that why she has asked you to speak to me?" "It is only that she wants you to understand that time is of the essence." "You can let her know that I understand." Our interview over, he held the door as I left, and as I passed him, he addressed me once more, in an unexpected whisper. "The thirteenth tale…? I don't suppose…" In his otherwise impassive face I caught a flash of the feverish impatience of the reader. "She has said nothing about it," I said. "Though even if she had, I would not be at liberty to tell you." His eyes cooled and a tremor ran from his mouth to the corner of his nose. "Good day, Miss Lea." "Good day, Doctor."

DR. AND MRS. MAUDSLEY

On my last day Miss Winter told me about Dr. and Mrs. Maudsley.

Leaving gates open and wandering into other people's houses was one thing, walking off with a baby in its pram was quite another. The fact that the baby, when it was found, was discovered to be none the worse for its temporary disappearance was beside the point. Things had got out of hand; action was called for.

The villagers didn't feel able to approach Charlie directly about it. They understood that things were strange at the house, and they were half afraid to go there. Whether it was Charlie or Isabelle or the ghost that encouraged them to keep their distance is hard to say. Instead, they approached Dr. Maudsley. This was not the doctor whose failure to arrive promptly may or may not have caused the death in childbirth of Isabelle 's mother, but a new man who had served the village for eight or nine years at this time.

Dr. Maudsley was not young, yet though he was in his middle forties he gave the impression of youth. He was not tall, nor really very muscular, but he had an air of vitality, of vigor about him. His legs were long for his body and he used to stride along at a great pace, with no apparent effort. He could walk faster than anyone, had grown used to finding himself talking into thin air and turning to find his walking companion scurrying along a few yards behind his back, panting with the effort of keeping up. This physical energy was matched by a great mental liveliness. You could hear the power of his brain in his voice, which was quiet but quick, with a facility for finding the right words for the right person at the right time. You could see it in his eyes: dark brown and very shiny, like a bird's eyes, observant, intent, with strong, neat eyebrows above.

Maudsley had a knack of spreading his energy around him-that's no bad thing for a doctor. His step on the path, his knock at the door, and his patients would start feeling better already. And not least, they liked him. He was a tonic in himself, that's what people said. It made a difference to him whether his patients lived or died, and when they lived, which was nearly always, it mattered how well they lived.

Dr. Maudsley had a great love of intellectual activity. Illness was a kind of puzzle to him, and he couldn't rest until he'd solved it. Patients got used to him turning up at their houses first thing in the morning when he'd spent the night puzzling over their symptoms, to ask one more question. And once he'd worked out a diagnosis, then there was the treatment to resolve. He consulted the books, of course, was fully cognizant of all the usual treatments, but he had an original mind that kept coming back to something as simple as a sore throat from a different angle, constantly casting about for the tiny fragment of knowledge that would enable him not only to get rid of the sore throat but to understand the phenomenon of the sore throat in an entirely new light. Energetic, intelligent and amiable, he was an exceptionally good doctor and a better than average man. Though, like all men, he had his blind spot.

The delegation of village men included the baby's father, his grandfather and the publican, a weary-looking fellow who didn't like to be left out of anything. Dr. Maudsley welcomed the trio and listened attentively as two of the three men recounted their tale. They began with the gates left open, went on to the vexed issue of the missing saucepans and arrived after some minutes at the climax of their story: the kidnapping of the infant in the perambulator.

"They're running wild," the younger Fred Jameson said finally.

"Out of control," added the older Fred Jameson.

"And what do you say?" asked Dr. Maudsley of the third man. Wilfred Bonner, standing to one side, had, until now, remained silent.

Mr. Bonner took his cap off and drew in a slow, whistling breath. "Well, I'm no medical man, but it seems to me them girls is not right." He accompanied his words with a look full of significance, then, in case he hadn't got his message across, tapped his bald head, once, twice, three times.

All three men looked gravely at their shoes.

"Leave it with me," said the doctor. "I'll speak to the family."

And the men left. They had done their bit. It was up to the doctor, the village elder, now. Though he'd said he would speak to the family, what the doctor actually did was speak to his wife.

"I doubt they meant any harm by it," she said, when he had finished telling the story. "You know what girls are. A baby is so much more fun to play with than a doll. They wouldn't have hurt him. Still, they must be told not to do it again. Poor Mary." And she lifted her eyes from her sewing and turned her face to her husband.