"I haven't the smallest desire to help the police," Margaret replied. "I hate policemen: they come nosing round after wireless licences, and tell you you don't know how to drive your car just because you misunderstand their silly signals. Anyway, I don't want to talk about Michael Strange any more." She gave a little shiver. "I say, don't you think it's beastly cold?"
"It is chilly," he agreed. "Wind's in the north. Like me to shut the window?"
"You might push it to just a bit. It'll get airless if we have it completely shut. I've half a mind to put a match to the fire. Look and see if there's any coal in the scuttle."
He lifted the lid. "Empty. We can soon get some though, if you really want a fire. Seems ridiculous in July, I must say."
"Nothing's ridiculous with the English climate. Honestly, wouldn't you rather like a fire?"
"I don't mind one way or the other. If you're cold, have one." He reached out a hand to the bell-pull, and tugged it.
"It's broken," Margaret informed him. "Celia didn't think it was worth while having it mended. If you take the scuttle out to the kitchen Bowers'll fill it, and bring it back."
"All right," he said obligingly. "Though you're a pest, you know." He dragged himself out of his chair and picked up the scuttle. "This is where an electric heater would come in handy."
"Oh no, think how cheery it'll be to see a blaze!" Margaret encouraged him.
He went out, and she picked up the matches and knelt down before the wide grate. A fire had already been laid, and enough coal to start it had been arranged on top of the wood. Margaret lit the edges of the newspaper, and had the satisfaction of hearing, in a few seconds, a promising crackle. The wood was dry, and caught easily, and Margaret, seeing that no frenzied fanning was going to be necessary, got up from her knees. She put out her hand to help herself up by one of the projecting bits of the moulding that ran round the fireplace, and to her surprise the carved wooden apple that her fingers had grasped twisted right round. She stared at it, and then quickly looked round the room, remembering the rosette that had moved to slide back the panel of the priest's hole.