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conclusions, except that Ivy’s doubts were stronger than Deirdre’s. “Still,” she said, as she walked beside Roy’s vehicle, “if she’s prepared to throw good money after bad, then the least we can do is to try and make some sense of what she has told us.”
    They reached Springfields, and Ivy said she thought she would have a quick nap. “I often think better after a spot of shut-eye,” she said, and asked Roy to make sure she was awake in time to go down to lunch.
    Stretched flat out on her bed, Ivy closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander. Much of what Miriam had told them this morning they already knew. The only new piece of information was her story of the man walking up Hangman’s Lane at eleven o’clock at night. Tallish, with a lot of dark hair, and wearing what sounded like formal eveningclothes. But eleven o’clock? Most people stayed at a ball until well after midnight. Deirdre’s account of her meeting with a saxophone player not wanting to meet Katherine Halfhide was interesting, but not necessarily connected, though the description sounded the same. And where was he going, up Hangman’s Lane with his supermarket shopping? There were no more houses after the Row, and he would soon come to the woods, which stretched on both sides for at least half a mile up the road.
    Ivy began to doze. She dreamed she was at the ball, floating round the dance floor in a long evening frock, waltzing in Roy’s arms to the strains of Sid and His Boys. The last time she had tapped her foot to their rhythmic beat was when they came to play for an Olde Tyme Evening at Springfields, and she had thought them very polished and professional, considering Sid was a local tax officer and his Swingers had all seen the other side of fifty years old and came from Oakbridge.
    Except one, thought Ivy, sitting up with a jerk. There had been one, playing a long curly silver thing with lots of buttons, and he was clearly not a plumber, nor was he any older than forty. He was tallish, with lots of dark hair, and was wearing a very smart dinner jacket, white shirt and black tie, not very appropriate for playing to old folks, half of them asleep, at Springfields.
    “Ivy? Are you awake, my love?” It was Roy, of course, and Ivy woke up properly.
    “Come in, do,” she said. “I am perfectly decent. All I need to do is put on my shoes, and then we can be off downstairs to lunch. There are good smells reaching up here, quite appetising for once.”
    Roy came into her room, bearing a beautiful red rose, which he handed to her, going down shakily on one knee. “For you, Ivy dearest,” he said, and she smiled tenderly.
    “You pinched it, out of our gaoler’s garden!” she said. “But thanks, anyway,” she added, planting a kiss on the top of his head. “I suppose you’d like a hand to get up?”
    “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I may have been a bit rash, but we can always send for Katya.”
    “Nonsense!” replied Ivy, putting her arm through his. “Up we come!”
    To Roy’s amazement, he was hoisted to his feet with a strong lift. Ivy dusted down his trouser knees and said she hoped he would stay upright for any further romantic gestures he might have in mind.
    When they were comfortably seated in front of plates of roast chicken and fresh peas, Ivy told Roy about her dream. “What do you think?” she said. “Could it be an omen? I believe in omens, you know. That man in Sid’s band answers exactly Miriam’s description of the nighttime stroller in Hangman’s Lane.”
    “And there was something else,” said Roy, chasing a rolling pea around his plate with a fork. “Miriam mentioned he was holding supermarket carrier bags.”
    Ivy began to laugh. “He could have been shopping at a late opening supermarket! There is one on the outskirts of Oakbridge. Oh, Roy,” she added, “it’s going to be hard to take this thing seriously.”
    “I have a suggestion, my dear,” Roy said. “Do you fancy a little walk