“The hand of little employment hath the daintier sense,” wrote the jolly old bard of Stratford-on-Avon. What the fellow meant by this is, perhaps, subject to various interpretations. But Mr. John Craft (a gentleman of practical employment) had always found the precept to be a trifle offensive. To his mind, Shakespeare appeared to be suggesting that thinking was best done by those who did nothing else, which was a quite false and unwarranted proposition. Although Shakespeare was the greatest of all English playwrights (Mrs. Craft would invariably point this out whenever he broached the subject), the old gent was obviously not above talking rubbish now and again, and rubbish is rubbish, no matter how many school-boys write it down in their copybooks.

At any rate, Craft firmly believed that practical employment was a stimulus to one’s mental faculties, and that lassitude had the opposite effect. That is why practical gentlemen invent steam engines, while clerics and dons sit at their desks, growing their stomachs and drifting off into metaphysics.

So it was that a few casual remarks, made during the course of a busy morning’s labors by Craft’s young assistant, Mr. Richard Chapman, got caught in the gears of Craft’s brain. The learned gentlemen of the leisure classes would likely have missed the import of Chapman’s words entirely, as they tend to have an arrogant disregard for the opinions of the common man, and of youth in general. To Craft, however, Chapman had unwittingly formulated a neat little problem, with bothersome implications.

The problem was left to simmer in the kettle of Craft’s mind for a while, while they attended to the tasks at hand. But during a moment of forced leisure, brought upon them by the tardiness of a delivery lorry, he found occasion to take the thing out and pick at it a bit.

“Well, bother,” Craft said irritably. He flipped open the cover of his watch. “Half past eleven, now.”

“Care for a fag?” Chapman took out his cigarette case and struck a match on the bricks.

“Thank you, Chapman.”

They smoked the cigarettes, standing under the awning that surrounded the edges of the yard, watching the slow drizzle of fat drops that spattered on the cobblestones.

“Rain holding them up, sir,” Chapman said. “Roads will be sogged, I expect.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” Craft agreed. “The sand had better not be wet. Can’t make do with wet sand, you know.”

Chapman furrowed his brow. “No, I suppose not …”

“Ought to be kept on hand, but there you are.”

“Yes, there you are.”

“So, Chapman …” Craft leaned back against the wall and folded his arms, having decided to stop worrying about the absent lorry. “Please go on with what you were saying earlier. About this girl of yours.”

“The girl?” Chapman grinned, tapping his cigarette carefully on the wall. “Lovely bird she was, sir. Well, not lovely in the usual sense, not in her appearance so much. Had a way about her, she did —”

“No, what I meant was, tell me about this ‘love at first sight’ notion of yours.”

“What about it, sir?”

Craft snorted. “Well, come on, lad. You can’t seriously believe that such a thing exists. Not in this day and age.”

“Not believe it? Why not?”

“Ah, bother,” Craft sighed. “I wouldn’t mind being a young man like yourself again, if I didn’t know that it would mean being a bloody fool, into the bargain.”

Chapman laughed. “You’re not such an old man, sir. And I’m not so young, or so bloody foolish. If I say so myself.”

“A young fool,” Craft said, shaking his forefinger at Chapman, “is apt to confuse his every momentary infatuation with love. Every spring is the dawn of new romantic era, such as the world has never seen, and every little dab of lace is … Bathsheba, bathing on a rooftop.”

“It weren’t like that with Mary, honest it weren’t. I was a young fool, sure enough. But even a fool knows the difference between a puddle and the ocean. I’d sported around with plenty of birds, lost my heart to some of them, for a few weeks or so. I knew the difference, sir, and she was different, Mary was. I would have married her in a heartbeat, and years later I still felt the same, long after all the others were forgot. That’s love, sir, isn’t it?”

“And you knew this from the moment you laid eyes on her?”

Chapman puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette for a few seconds, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I knew it, straight off.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that, sir.”

“Now, how can this be, Chapman?”

“Can’t say how it happened, sir. It just did. Loved her as quick as I laid eyes on her — when she’s all of sudden standing there, saying like ‘Hello, Tommy-lad, how are you?’ — and every moment after was just like that first one, sir. Lots of chaps would know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, because they read some prattle about ‘love at first sight’ in some fool novel. But have you stopped to think about what you’re saying, Chapman? The implications of it? Do you believe in predestination?”

“Predestination,” Chapman said slowly. “Can’t say I’m familiar, sir.”

“The notion that all events are reckoned before they occur, in every detail, and that everything occurs exactly as reckoned, and that nothing could therefore be otherwise than it is?”

Chapman shook his head. “You know I’m not a church-going man, sir.”

“I’m not preaching the bloody articles, Chapman. I’m talking about a philosophical theory, as old as the Greeks. And bloody Egyptians, and such. Do you believe that it was your destiny to meet this girl and fall in love with her, and that no force in Heaven or Earth could have prevented you from doing so?”

“Of course not!” Chapman laughed, crushing out his cigarette and tossing the butt end into one of the ash cans. “If I’d gone across the street for a pint, or been hit by a speeding motorcar, I never would have met her at all. That’s just common sense.”

“Very well,” Craft said, “then you reject the notion that you were prevented from getting your pint, and spared the speeding motorcar, because you were inevitably destined to meet this girl and instantly fall in love with her?”

“Do you mean destined by God, sir?”

“By God, or the Devil, or the universe, or the bloody Home Office, or any bloody thing, Chapman.”

“I don’t think I believe in destiny that way, sir. Don’t seem square to me. Oh, I know what you mean, lots of chaps talked like that during the war. Saying that some were meant to get it, and some weren’t, and that there was nothing to be done for any of it. I never believed that. How could it all be reckoned as you say, with bombs and shells flying everywhere, and all manner of things going on? Pure bloody accident, I say. No sense to any of it.”

“So you rule out predestination, then … ah, there’s the lorry. About time!”

A dirty panel van was passing through the gate, lumbering towards them slowly. Craft opened his umbrella and stepped out into the yard so the driver could see him. Smoke from his cigarette got in his eye, so he tossed it down and stamped on it. The van crawled into the yard, filling it with the tangy smell of motor exhaust, and turned towards the far wall before halting with a loud hiss from its brakes. Gears ground, and the van began to back towards the doors with a series of awkward jerks.

“Closer,” Craft called. “Right up against it, please.”

The van halted again as the driver thrust his head out of the window and looked back at the awning apprehensively.

“You can’t hit it,” Craft said. “You’re well clear. We need you to back close to the door, we can’t have the sand getting wet. It isn’t wet, is it?”

“Wet already, you mean?” The driver shook his head. “Sacked it meself. As dry as you want.”

“Can’t make do with wet sand, you know. There, that’s close enough!”

Chapman opened the back of the van, and Craft walked around to poke his head into the dim interior. Four fifty-pound sacks were neatly stacked there. Craft handed his umbrella to Chapman and carefully felt the sides of each sack with his hands, making certain that the sand was loose.

“Dry as bones, those,” the driver said, turning in his seat and holding out a clipboard.

Satisfied, Craft took the clipboard and signed the form that was attached to it, while Chapman briskly hefted each sack through the door and loaded them on the handcart. By the time Craft had closed and locked the doors to the yard, Chapman was already pushing the cart down the corridor to the shop. When Craft entered the shop, Chapman had laid out the scoop and the rubber-lined sack on the bench, and was pulling the dust cover off the large scale.

“Eleven forty-four,” Craft said, writing the time down in his notebook. “Prepared the ballast sack.”

“I can do it, sir. How much?”

Craft turned the page of his book to the notations he had made earlier that morning. “One hundred and fifty-one pounds and three ounces, if you please, Mr. Chapman.”

“Very good.” Chapman adjusted the weights on the scale, then paused to poke a cigarette into his mouth. “Another, sir?”

“No, thank you.” Craft snapped his book shut and put it into his coat pocket. “Mind the clumps, Chapman. Any clumps should be tossed out.”

“Right, sir.” Chapman slit open one of the sacks with his clasp knife, then plopped the rubber-lined sack on the scale and began to scoop sand into it. “No fear of clumps, I think. Dry as dust.”

“We were discussing allegations of love at first sight,” Craft said, sitting down on a stool. “If you won’t be distracted by it.”

“Not at all, sir.” Chapman grinned at him. “Very keen on the subject, aren’t you, sir?”

“Well, you are my assistant, and I feel I ought to pay mind to your education. I lacked such guidance myself, you know, when I was a young man. Old Mr. Fitch, whom I understudied for five years, was a kind fellow who showed much thoughtful consideration toward me, but he never took any interest in my intellectual properties.”

“Don’t see what intellectual properties is to do with love, Mr. Craft. Nor education, neither.”

“Habits of mind, lad,” Craft said. “All things are governed by habits of mind. We practice an exact science, Mr. Chapman, with no room for carelessness. It all proceeds from having tidy mental habits, in my opinion. Vague and inexplicable notions are anathema to gentlemen like ourselves.”

“Really? Must everything be explained?”

“Ideally, yes, I suppose everything ought to be, sooner or later, but that’s not up to us. We needn’t know the explanation for everything under the sun, but blatantly preposterous notions oughtn’t to go running about unexamined —”

“You really think it so preposterous, then?” Having scooped out the top portion of the sack, Chapman lifted it and began to pour the rest into the container on the scale, being careful not to spill it.

“Mind you keep an eye out for clumps,” Craft cautioned. “Yes, it is preposterous. Just as the idea of a broom deciding to go sweeping about by itself is preposterous. Unless it was all somehow planned, but you said you don’t believe in such things.”

“I don’t,” Chapman said, cutting open the next sack. “It just happened. I didn’t plan it, and I’m sure Mary didn’t plan it, and I don’t know who else would have bothered.”

“Then are you saying, Chapman, that as soon as you met this girl some chemical of yours united with some chemical of hers, and your beaker bubbled over with instantaneous love?”

“Chemicals?” Chapman said, appalled. “You’re not suggesting that’s what love is, sir? Is chemicals?”

“There are those who would assert as much.”

“Chemicals?”

“There are those who would say that the sensation of love is no more than a chemical reaction in the brain. According to this theory, love is chemicals. Hate is chemicals. Fondness for cabbage is all owing to chemicals.”

“Bloody awful, sir!” Chapman grimaced, squinting through his smoke as he scooped. “But then, some people have never been in love.”

“That’s true.”

“Never saw a bit of … never saw a lady they fancied, so they don’t know what they’re bloody talking about. Head full of bloody chemicals, is their bloody problem, sir.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Chapman. But it would provide a scientific explanation for your ‘love at first sight’.”

“Rather not have it explained, if that’s the way of it.”

“But you see the problem, don’t you, lad? If you’re not a machine, acting out your destiny, and if love is not something that is chemically brewed like a cup of tea, whenever the proper ingredients collide … isn’t love knowledge, Chapman? Isn’t love something one knows, with one’s entire being?”

“There you are, sir. Absolutely.”

“But knowledge is something that comes with learning, Chapman. It doesn’t just pop through the transom, does it? You can’t read a book by looking at the jacket, can you?”

“I wouldn’t think so, sir.” Chapman paused, stooping to study the scale. “There we are. Spot on, I think.”

“Mind that the sand is settled well.”

Chapman lifted the heavy sack an inch or so and let it plop back down on the scale a few times, then examined the balance bar again. “One hundred fifty-one pounds and three ounces, if you would care to double-check, sir.”

Craft rose and went to the scale. “One hundred fifty-one and three it is, Mr. Chapman. Well done. Seal it up and let’s get it loaded.”

They lifted the heavy sack between them and carefully laid it on the cart. Craft knelt down and examined the sack carefully, to make certain no sand was leaking out of it. Satisfied, he rose and opened the shop door, after which they maneuvered the cart into the corridor.

“I can handle it, sir,” Chapman said, getting behind the cart and grasping the handle.

“Well, I will keep hold of the front handle,” Craft said. “We wouldn’t want one of the wheels to go funny, and have the cart go blundering into the wall.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We must always take precautions to avoid having any clatter in the wing.”

“Yes, sir.” Chapman braced his broad shoulders and began to push the cart down the corridor at a careful pace. “Look, sir, about what you were saying …”

“Yes?”

“About knowledge.”

“Yes?”

“How did you come to know about Mrs. Craft, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“An excellent question. I came to know about her, Chapman, in a manner that nicely illustrates my point. We met, I courted her, I discovered that I loved her, I proposed, and Mrs. Craft graciously accepted. Granted, our courtship was brief, but it was quite thorough. No thunderbolt came blasting out of the blue sky and smacked me on the forehead, to lay me flopping like a fish at her feet. A clear-cut case of knowledge acquired, Mr. Chapman. Mind the bend coming up.”

They guided the awkward cart around the corner, careful to avoid any collision with the wall.

“Take it a little slower now, Chapman,” Craft said in a low voice. “Plenty of time. The wheels rattle if we go too fast, have to avoid that.”

“Right, sir,” Chapman whispered. “You know, sir, when I said I fell in love with my Mary at first sight, I didn’t mean to suggest that love always happens that way. I mean, I’m sure you don’t love Mrs. Craft any less, for it not being instant. If that’s why you’re arguing with it …”

“No, not at all.”

“Perhaps it’s much better when it doesn’t come over you all at once, instantaneous like.”

“Chapman, I think you might be on the road to wisdom.”

“And I understand what you mean by knowledge, and having to get it proper, and all. Like you can’t just see through a wall, or read a book without opening it up. Be lunatic to think that you could.”

“It would indeed,” Craft said, smiling. “And a healthy, reliable young man like yourself is certainly not lunatic.”

Chapman fell silent, frowning thoughtfully, and his eyes studied the roof of the corridor as he pushed the cart along at a slow, steady pace. A moment later they came to the surgery, which adjoined the corridor on the right, and they halted. Craft unlocked the door and switched on the light. A metal instrument cart was just inside the doorway, and he carefully wheeled it over to the far wall, well out of their path. There was a heavy table in the room which could not be moved, as it was bolted to the concrete floor. Fortunately there was ample space for the cart to pass through with only a trifling bit of awkwardness. Another door inside the surgery had to be unlocked, giving them access to their final destination.

“All right,” Craft said softly. “Let’s get her in.”

They rotated the handcart ninety degrees in the corridor, which was several more degrees than the cart cared to rotate without making a fuss, but they managed it without any noisy banging about. Chapman pushed it smoothly through the door into the surgery, where it had to be turned ninety degrees again, in order to negotiate the second door.

“Here we are, then,” Craft said, looking about the brightly illuminated room, which was entirely empty except for two folding stepladders that rested against one of the brick walls. “There are our ladders … Good Heavens, Chapman. Where is our rope?”

Chapman was pushing the cart through the door, and he paused, leaning over the handle to peer in at Craft. “Where is what, sir?”

Craft bent backwards to look up at the high ceiling. “We neglected to let our rope down through the … oh, bother. The trap is closed!”

Chapman pushed the cart all the way into the room, then looked up at the ceiling as well. “So it is, sir.”

“Bloody hell,” Craft muttered. “Didn’t we leave it open? Bloody thoughtless of us, Chapman.”

“But we did, sir. If you will recall. When we were up testing the mechanism, Tuesday last. I well remember we left it open.”

Craft whipped out his notebook and leafed through it rapidly. “Tuesday last, Tuesday last … Here ‘tis, ‘Oiled the bolts, tested the mechanism, three falls … trap left deployed, in fallen position.’ So we did.” He looked gravely at Chapman, tapping the notepaper with his finger. “The trap was left in a fallen position, Chapman. It is written in my book as plain as day. So who’s been mucking about up there?”

“Why, no one ought to be, surely.”

“Someone manifestly has been, Chapman.”

“McCarthy did mention —”

“Mr. McCarthy mentioned what, Chapman?”

“He did mention that some fellow from the Home Office was round and about, yesterday and the day before. An inspector, or some such. Rummaging about he was, looking for cracks and leaks, and dampness and such.”

“Ah!” Craft nodded. “There is our explanation, Chapman. No doubt they secured the trap, to avoid the possibility that the silly beggar might precipitate himself through it. They ought to have sent him away, it’s quite improper to have such fellows blustering about at times like this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fellows ought not to be tampering about with equipment without informing us. Not when a job is on. The equipment is clearly under our control, Chapman, and one must keep a watchful eye for interference such as this. I often found fault with my superior, Mr. Fitch, in this regard. He was never one for insisting upon proper respect for equipment.”

“Yes, sir. Still, it’s no bother, really. I can just pop up there and spring it.”

“No, it won’t do to just pop up there and spring it, lad,” Craft said, rubbing his chin. “We don’t want the thing crashing open like a bloody thunderclap. Making all manner of racket.”

“Oh, right. Here’s a thought. I could fetch the other rope from the kit, run it through the eyelets of the safety bolt, and you could spring the trap while I hold the rope. Let ‘er down easy, that way.”

“Well thought upon,” Craft said decisively. “That’s the very thing, and we shall carry out your plan at once. Thankfully our schedule does not yet suffer, but let’s be brisk about it.”

Chapman popped back to the shop to fetch the rope, then the two men went further down the corridor and climbed the stairs. Doubling back on the second floor, they came to a door which Craft unlocked, taking care to be very quiet. A small, empty room was on the other side. One wall of the room was a sliding partition, which they slowly pulled back just far enough so they could slip through into the chamber that held the trap.

Chapman removed the safety bolt and threaded the spare rope through the metal eyelets. The main rope was hanging looped in a rather untidy coil, the coil being secured with a metal clasp. Craft removed the clasp so that the rope plopped down on the trap in a pile. He stooped and poked at the pile to make certain it wasn’t tangled.

“Bloody Neanderthals,” he muttered. “Building inspections are all very right and proper, but they ought not to be tampering about with equipment. Granville will hear of this, Chapman, I assure you.”

“Going to reset the drop now, sir?” Chapman asked.

“Oh, no,” Craft answered. “That’s for the morrow. Last minute thing, that is. It’s quite an elementary process with this rig; you’ll find it much easier than the fiddling about we have to do with that equipment at Pentonville. For now, we’ll want a good healthy length of rope hanging down there, so we won’t have to lift that sack of sand so high. Are you ready with that rope, then?”

“Ready when you are, Mr. Craft.” Chapman stood braced, feet apart, with both ends of the spare rope wrapped around his sturdy forearm.

“Back a bit, Chapman. A good six feet, if you please. And let the rope have a little slack, please — not too much, but a little. I don’t want to go jerking you through the hole like a flounder on a fishing line.”

“Right, sir.”

“Here goes nothing, then.”

Craft sprang the trap, which cracked open about twelve inches before Chapman’s rope pulled taut and braked it. The pile of rope on the trap slithered through the crack and tumbled into the room below, where it uncoiled itself to hang nice and straight, with no bothersome tangles.

“Jolly good,” Craft said. “Now ease it down, and mind your footing.”

Chapman inched forward, letting the trap open slowly until the doors hung straight down on their hinges. “There you are, sir.”

“Well done,” Craft said approvingly, “and with no fuss or clatter. Let’s get back down there, then.”

“Right, sir.” Chapman crouched and pulled the rope free from the eyelets. He peered down through the trap door opening as he coiled the rope up. “Could scale down from here quite easily, you know. Did a bit of that in the Army.”

“You can descend the stairs with me, like a civilized man,” Craft replied. “You’re not a Commando, at a bleeding circus exhibition. Let’s go and deal with that sack.”

They returned to the room below, and lifted the sack out of the handcart. With a minimal amount of difficulty they passed the end of it through the loop in the hanging rope.

“We want it right around the middle, now, Chapman. Equal weight on both sides, so the sand doesn’t shift, and the whole thing slop out of the rig in the middle of the night.”

They fiddled about with it for a few minutes, adjusting the loop this way and that, until Craft was satisfied that the sack was hanging in a stable manner, with the rope fastened right around its middle. It was suspended about five feet above the floor. Craft knelt down and studied the underside of it, to check for any leaking sand.

“Sound as a pound.” He consulted his watch, then took out the notebook. “‘Twelve twenty-five, ballast sack in place.’ There you are, Chapman my lad. That’ll wring the little kinks out of her. You may rely on that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What have you got on for lunch?”

“Potted meat and biscuit for me, sir.”

“Mrs. Craft sent me to work heavily laden this morning. I looked the perfect bloody milkmaid, toting my great bucket about. Enough fodder for a cavalry regiment, I should think. So there is an ample share for you.”

“Thank her kindly for me, sir,” Chapman said. “Jolly thoughtful. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

“No trouble for her, surely, she’s not the one staggering forth under the weight of a grocer’s market. My own fault, I confess it. She engaged in some idle speculation about your luncheon habits, and like a fool I supplied her with damaging information. Well, our work is done, so luncheon it is.”

They returned to the shop, where they set out a regular banquet of sandwiches, cucumbers, sliced tomatoes, and cold mash. They tucked into it eagerly, but thirty minutes of steady eating didn’t exhaust half of it. The two men soldiered on as long as they could, then relaxed and smoked some cigarettes over the shambles.

“Thank Heavens for an end to rationing, eh, Chapman? One egg a month, and meat never — it was enough to make a man despair of civilization.”

“Yes, sir. About what you were saying, sir …”

“Yes,” Craft replied absent-mindedly. “About the equipment.”

“No, sir. About love.”

“Ah, yes. Love. Like a red, red rose, newly sprung in June …”

“Seriously, sir,” Chapman said, looking at Craft earnestly. “Been thinking about it, what you said. It put me back a bit, to Mary, and to times gone by.”

“Did it?” Craft leaned back and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Look, lad, I didn’t mean to brush a sore spot. Fond memories shouldn’t be interrogated too harshly, I suppose. If a man remembers a thing … in a certain pleasing way, what does it matter if he lays a little pie crust on it? A little delusion here and there is not so harmful — in its proper place, mind you, which is well in the past. Softens things up, it does. Takes the little jags and edges off, and makes a man sleep easy …”

“Right, right, you’re right, Mr. Craft. However …” Chapman jabbed at the smoky air with his forefinger. “What you said before, that were right, too. About it being not rational. Like a broom whisking about by itself. Not sensible. And I never thought of it that way before, because I always thought that love weren’t sensible to begin with, being all romantic and magical and the like. And then there’s memory. Memory is always wanting to play tricks, too. So I been trying to puzzle my way past that. But I can’t. No matter how I sort it, sir, the fact is plain — it happened just like I said. And that don’t make bloody sense!”

“I wouldn’t let it bother you, lad.”

“But how can it not bother me, sir? Like, if you were to see water run up a hill. Or if you woke up one morning, and you knew how to play the piano, when you never touched one before. How could you pretend that was natural, sir?”

“If I had ever witnessed water running up a hill,” Craft said, “I would console myself with the assurance that I must have been mistaken. If I could play the piano, I would be forced to conclude that the lessons must have slipped my mind. Think of all the days a man lives in his life, Chapman. The mind fills up with things. They can’t all be stacked away square and tidy. Especially when the goods are not received in a proper condition to begin with! And the goods that your senses supply you with when you first run up against an intoxicating young female, Chapman, these are damaged goods indeed. All jumbled up and sloppy, with bits of fluff sticking out — makes a regular muck of a man’s warehouse. A gawky, knock-kneed little lass that caught your eye as a school-boy, why, she gets marked down in the inventory as Helen of bloody Troy, and good luck getting that sorted out. It happens every day, man. And God help you if you tangle too closely with a real beauty, like you did. Bloody Home Office couldn’t make such a mess.”

Chapman shook his head, smiling softly. “No sir, I told you. Mary weren’t beautiful. Not so’s you’d notice, that is. Oh, she weren’t unattractive, but she were no Greer Garson, sir. In the nightgown and the hat … Odd thing is, I don’t recall her face so exactly.”

“Are you mad, Chapman?” Craft sputtered. “Have you lost your bloody mind?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve been pining your pitiful heart out for this lost-lady-love, simpering away for ten bloody years, and you can’t even remember what she bloody looks like?”

“No —”

“Can you begin to fathom how utterly appalled poor Mrs. Craft would be, if I were to relate this conversation to her? The distress might put the woman on her death bed. And not a doctor in the parish to care for her — she’d have every last one of them chasing after you.”

“No, sir! Honestly, it weren’t her face. I’d know my Mary if I saw her again, of course I would, but her face … like a million other faces, it was. I told you, she had a way about her. It wasn’t how she looked, or talked, or moved, or smelled. It was all of them at once. Mary had a way I can’t describe, or even imagine, and that’s why I know that it happened! Do you see, sir? Mary happened just the way I remember, because I couldn’t have made her up if I lived to be a thousand!”

“Bloody gaping hell, Chapman. You drive me to despair.”

“But you see my point, don’t you, sir?”

“Despair, Chapman!” Craft rubbed his forehead sadly. “Well, for the love of God, man. Why did you let her go? Why didn’t you marry her, moving Heaven and Earth if you had to?”

Chapman sighed. “Move Heaven and Earth? Would have been enough to move the war to some other bloody planet, and Hitler straight to Hell. But I couldn’t manage that. And she was off to Africa with another man, long before I got home again.”

“A faithless woman,” Craft said gently. “Not a worthy thing to cherish in your heart, lad. Not for years and years.”

“Don’t I know it. But that ain’t up to me, it seems.”

“If the circumstances had allowed for a proper courtship,” Craft mused, “you would have discovered this defect of her character, and modified your affections accordingly. Another tragedy of the war, Chapman. One makes much of death and destruction, and rightly so, I suppose. But one never stops to consider the havoc war wreaks upon proper courtship. There are those who would scoff at that, of course. But as you said yourself: Some men have never been in love.”

“Aye. Aye, you’re right, Mr. Craft.”

“While other men have perhaps been in too much love, with too little reciprocation. I often thought that Mr. Fitch, my old superior, suffered from that affliction. In his younger days, at least. But enough of this grim talk, Chapman! Let us turn our minds to the business at hand.” Craft rose and began to swiftly pack away the sandwich wrappers and empty tins, while keeping one skeptical eye on his assistant. “You are all right, aren’t you, lad?”

“Oh, yes sir!” Chapman nodded vigorously as he smashed his cigarette out. “Right as rain, sir, only a bit pensive and all. Don’t mind me, sir.”

“I do need you on for the job, you know. Can’t have you wandering off.”

“I’m on for the job, sir, honest,” Chapman said firmly. “You can rely on me, honest.”

“Good lad.” Craft carefully sealed the lid on the lunch pail, then sat down and took out his book. “Now, we had one or two minor hitches today, neither of which was significant, nor were we to blame for them … Tomorrow I shall have a talk with Mr. Granville about the equipment, I assure you. But not until the job is done! Not a word about it before then, to anyone, understand?”

“Mum as a post, sir.”

“No note of discord must disturb the morning’s agenda, however slightly. All events must go off smooth and even. So let us review our schedule. Half past five, be ready for the car. Best appearances now, so smarten up your shoes, et cetera.”

“My shoes and my what, sir?”

“Your shoes and everything,” Craft said gravely. “Et cetera.”

“I see, sir.”

“We should arrive here promptly at six o’clock, with plenty of time to make our arrangements.” Craft’s pencil scratched briskly on the notepaper. “At seven o’clock is our appointment with Mr. Granville, and at eight o’clock, of course, we have Mrs. Lovestone. Have you any questions about that, Chapman?”

“No, sir.”

Craft glanced at him sternly. “About our appointment with Mrs. Lovestone in particular, I mean?”

“I dunno … Like what, sir?”

“Anything, man. I must say, you showed no curiosity about her this morning. It was most noticeable. Dare I say almost rude.”

“I was minding the scale, sir! You told me to be attentive to it.”

“And indeed you were,” Craft replied. “Commendably so. Quite an efficient job. But the whole time she was in the room, you never once turned your head in her direction.”

“No,” Chapman said. “What was there to see, I wonder?”

“No matter.” And, Craft thought to himself, given the lad’s penchant for supernatural romance-at-a-glance, perhaps just as well! “This is a very important job, Chapman. I’ve not had you on a job … well, a job of this type before. So any questions or reservations that you have should be stated straight out. You seem right enough, but if there is a problem I want nothing held back —”

“Sir, I told you, I’m right as rain, honest I am! I won’t let you down, sir.”

“Of course, of course. As I said, it’s no matter. I suppose you’ve read about this whole rotten business in the papers until you’ve grown sick of it, anyway. In the trade journals, as Mrs. Craft likes to call them, when she’s in a mind to be witty.”

“No, sir,” Chapman laughed. “I never read the papers, except for the matches.”

“Really?” Craft frowned. “A young fellow ought to keep himself informed, Mr. Chapman, and about something more than the matches.”

“I know you’re right, sir. I ought to give it a go, I suppose. I just don’t like the stories in the papers, they make me wonder what the bloody war was for, sometimes.”

“Indeed.” Craft nodded thoughtfully. “I have noticed that phenomenon myself. It is well that one knows beforehand what the war was about, or it would be a difficult thing to deduce from current events. Well, our day is nearly done, lad. Home in time for tea, no doubt. Let’s inspect the kit.”

The kit consisted of only a few bits of necessary tackle, packed away in a grip bag which was to be left in the shop where it would be conveniently available in the morning. They inventoried the contents in short order, then closed up the grip and exited the room.

“I’ll want to have a brief look at the sand,” Craft said, locking the shop door. “To make certain that it has settled in the rig all right. Then we shall review the day’s agenda, to ensure that nothing has been omitted, and call on Mr. McCarthy to have the motorcar brought around.”

All remaining details were accomplished within the hour, and soon they were on their way home.

“Splendid job today, Chapman,” Craft remarked. “All off neat and proper. The better part of an afternoon’s leisure shall be our reward.”

“Yes, sir.”

The driver was eying them both in the reflecting mirror with an unseemly amount of curiosity, Craft noted, but he put it out of his mind.

“What do you do for leisure, Chapman?”

“My brother has a garage, sir, over in Brighton. We like to tinker about. Has a racing car, he does, a Mercedes. And there’s cricketing, and going ‘round the pub with my mates. Not this evening, of course, sir. ‘Spect I’ll watch the match on my landlord’s telly, this evening.”

“Spot of friendly advice, Chapman. Garages and public houses are not fertile ground for the cultivation of romance. You ought to attend some sort of social occasion now and again, and survey the fairer sex. I’m confident that it would prove an antidote to your peculiar ailment.”

“I do try to, sir.” Chapman was looking out the window, watching the rainswept street go by. “All this time, though … after all this time, every bird I see just puts me in mind of Mary.”

Now, Craft could make nothing of Chapman’s reply, even with the assistance of Mrs. Craft.

“Can you fathom it, Emma?” he demanded, as he sat down to tea.

“No, John, I can’t. It is a pity, though.”

“It quite escapes my comprehension.” Craft frowned at his toast as he buttered it. “This disastrous young woman, whom he knew for a scant three days, succeeded in shafting him with a harpoon that he has been unable to extricate after ten years of effort!”

“Tsk. Must have been a looker, that one.”

“Oh, no, Emma. Oh, no, indeed. Quite the contrary, he assured me so himself. A woman of such unremarkable countenance, she was, that he cannot even recall her features. Have you ever heard of anything so unreasonable?”

“Now, John.” Mrs. Craft looked up from the little pewter knick-knack she was polishing. “Surely you’re exaggerating, now.”

“Do I ever exaggerate, Emma? Do I ever? If only you could have heard him describe it. It was as if she assaulted him with a … a pastiche of irrational sensations, and other intangible phenomena. And this display of witchery quite overruled every scrap of reason he possessed, transforming a bright and resourceful young boy into her instant and utter thrall. As for her faulty character, why, that never entered into the equation at all. He had no opportunity for a proper calculation —”

“Well, he’s young, Richard is. He’ll sort himself out, you’ll see.”

“His youth is not the issue, Emma!” Craft brandished the sugar spoon at his wife. “His youth is not the issue! A young man has a brain, as surely as an old man does. A young man is subject to the laws of physics, is he not?”

“I’m sure he is, John.”

“And we’re not living in the Middle Ages, Emma.”

“No, John.”

“Nor are we living in the Romantic Age.”

“Aren’t we?”

“No, of course we’re not.”

Mrs. Craft puzzled for a moment. “Is this the Age of Reason, then?”

“No, no, Reason was before Romance.”

“Well, what are we up to then, John?”

“The Atomic Age, of course!”

“Oh, yes. I don’t much like the sound of this age, I have to say. Much rather go on with the Romantic one for a bit.”

“An understandable sentiment,” Craft said, draining his cup and reaching for the kettle. “Though of course, these are merely names assigned for the sake of convenience. The point is, one must face facts.”

“Well, look here, John. You’ve not lost faith in Richard, have you? He’s such a nice young man, and you’ve never had cause to complain about him before.”

“True. In his professional conduct, I find nothing to reproach.” Craft sighed. “As for his appalling notions about love, there is no reason to believe they will impair his work. But they do show a certain careless attitude towards the scientific laws of cause and effect, and I pray that no trouble will come of that.”

But no trouble was apparent in the morning. Chapman was cheerful, and impeccable in his appearance. Alas, their car arrived five minutes late, but nevertheless they reached their destination before the stroke of six.

“Good morning, Mr. McCarthy,” Craft said as they entered the office.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” McCarthy rose stiffly from his desk and came around to take their hats and coats.

“Are we still on for today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then may I have the keys, please.” Craft took the key-ring from McCarthy and turned to Chapman. “Here is the key for the shop. Please retrieve our kit and meet me in the room behind the surgery.”

Craft went directly to the surgery, which was standing open. No one was there, but Craft could smell fresh cleaning fluid. He opened the door to the adjoining room and went to inspect the sand bag. It was still hanging evenly in the rig, and when he stooped and swept the concrete floor with his hand he was satisfied to find that none of its contents had leaked during the night. Craft trundled the handcart over to it, and found that he could easily push the sack over into the cart without assistance. By the time Chapman arrived, he had freed the sack from the rope.

“Let’s get the cart out of here, quietly, and move it just down the hall.”

“Back to the shop, sir?”

“It needn’t go all the way back to the shop, just down the hall a bit will do.”

So they maneuvered the laden cart through the surgery a second time and pushed it down the corridor a few paces, where they left it pushed against the wall, with the sack of sand still in it.

“Now if you would take the kit upstairs to the trap room, please. Mr. McCarthy will be there to meet you. Be very quiet, and when you have passed through the sliding partition, be certain to close it behind you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Craft returned to the room behind the surgery. After a moment he heard the soft whisper of the partition being opened and shut in the room above, and he looked up and saw Chapman through the trap door. The assistant set the grip bag down and stooped to open it. Soon a length of yellow ribbon came fluttering down, and Craft seized it. Taking a roll of packaging tape from his coat pocket, he tore off a short piece and used it to attach the end of the yellow measuring tape to the hanging rope, right at the base of the knot.

He looked up and watched while Chapman laid a heavy plank across the trap door opening and stepped out on it carefully, holding the other end of the measuring tape in one hand. Chapman placed the tape alongside the rope and pulled it up to make sure it was taut. Craft walked around the rope a few times, studying it to make sure that the measuring tape was properly stretched out along the length of it, with no bothersome kinks. Satisfied, he waved his hand at Chapman, who immediately secured the top of the measuring tape to the rope.

Craft went to the wall and took one of the two stepladders that stood there. He carried it out of the room and down the corridor to the stairs. When he reached the small room adjoining the trap room, straining a bit under the weight of the ladder, he nodded politely at McCarthy, who opened the partition for him.

Setting down the ladder carefully, he beckoned to Chapman, who stepped off the plank onto the edge of the trap door opening. Craft edged out onto the plank himself, paying careful heed to his balance and footing. The plank was thick and did not bow under his weight, so it was not the least bit precarious. He looked down the length of the rope, double-checking the proper positioning of the measuring tape, and then he read along the tape measurements until he found the proper mark — nineteen feet and one inch, from the base of the knot to this point on the rope. At that point, Craft tied a short length of red cord around the rope. Then he tore the measuring tape loose and tugged at it until the other end came free from the knot down below.

“All done,” he whispered to Chapman as he stepped off the plank. “Hoist it up, please, until the red cord reaches the beam.”

Craft busied himself in wrapping the measuring tape around his index finger until it was in a nice little roll. There was a faint ticking sound and clanking of chains as Chapman turned the wheel of the hoist, which caused the rope to be slowly drawn up through the hole in the ceiling beam. Craft dropped the measuring tape into the grip bag and stepped out on the plank again, watching the rope go up until the cord reached the hole. He waved at Chapman to stop, then he grabbed the rope and gathered it up, looping it about his forearm. Chapman lowered an iron lever from the wall which caused the hoist wheel to be locked in place.

Chapman next took down a hooked rod which was hanging nearby and brought it over to the trap door opening. When the rope had all been drawn up from the room below, Craft nodded at Chapman, who used the hook to pull up the trap doors, first one and then the other. The oiled mechanisms clicked as each of the doors locked into their closed position.

“Mind the safety bolt.”

Chapman slid the safety bolt in place, then brought the stepladder over to where Craft was standing. Craft mounted it until his head was near the ceiling, and continued to gather up the rope in a coil about his forearm. When it was coiled up far enough by his calculation, he snapped the metal clasp around the coils to hold it temporarily in place. Then he got down, and they stepped back to examine their work. The rope was now hanging with the knot about five feet above the surface of the trap door, the surplus rope being coiled up in a bundle near the beam.

“Spot on, I think,” Craft said. “Take the plank and lay it along the wall, on top of the other one there.”

While Chapman removed the plank, Craft climbed the stepladder again. He took another length of cord from his pocket and tied the bundle of coils together with it. This cord was strong enough to hold the coils in place, but would break easily when pulled. With this expedient in place, he unsnapped the metal clasp and removed it.

This done, Chapman put the stepladder in the corner alongside the hoist wheel, while Craft scratched away at his notebook. When he had finished, he went to the rope and examined the knot.

“Yes,” he muttered softly, sliding the eyelet up and down along the rope. “Yes, yes. Paraffin did the trick, no need to bother with it further. Well enough alone, right? All right, Chapman, stand in the center of the trap. Let me position your feet.”

Chapman stepped into the center of the trap door surface and placed his feet together. Craft walked completely around him, studying Chapman’s position, then stooped and guided his feet about an inch to the right.

“Smart job on the shoes, Chapman,” he remarked. “Sharp as shaving mirrors.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“There you are … just there, I think.”

Craft took a stick of chalk from his pocket and carefully drew a straight line on the wood surface of the trap door, right in front of Chapman’s toes. Chapman moved his feet apart a couple of inches, and Craft drew another line directly between them, at right angles to the first line. When Chapman stepped away, there was a T-shaped chalk mark on the trap door.

Craft checked his pocket watch, then took out his book and made another entry. “The time is six forty-two. Let’s return to the office and await Mr. Granville.”

Craft sat down in one of the comfortable office chairs and carefully loaded the bowl of his pipe. “Do sit down and relax, Chapman. Smoke a cigarette if you wish. It doesn’t do to let yourself get wound up.”

“I’m not wound up,” Chapman said, settling into a chair. “S’pose they’ll have it off?”

“Happens sometimes,” Craft said, striking a match. “Rarely do they do so at such a late hour, though. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, sir. Notion occurred to me, is all.”

“We still collect for our work, so have no fear of that.” Craft lit the pipe and puffed at it a few times. “Odd.”

“What’s odd, sir?”

“Tradition is an odd thing, Chapman. This pipe is a tradition. Ever since I came into the practice, I smoke this pipe on the day of a job. Picked the habit up from old Mr. Fitch, who was quite religious about it. It was some years before I learned the meaning of it.”

“The meaning?”

“Keeps away devils, you see. Or ghosts, or some such. Forget which.”

Chapman grinned. “You’re having me on, sir.”

“Not in the least, I assure you. The opinion was quite universal among men of our profession, in ages past. So it was that I found myself in possession of a habit, the origin of which was besotted with purest superstition.”

“Must have been a shock, sir,” Chapman said sympathetically. “You being a man of reason, and all.”

“Needless to say, I was appalled. And I yet I made no effort to abandon the habit, as I found that it provides a pleasant moment of diversion, which prevents one from becoming wound up. Alas, it gave no such relief to Mr. Fitch, I fear.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Fitch was a very peculiar man, Chapman. I suspected him of having supernatural enthusiasms, of the most primitive nature. Which sorted very poorly with his other fault — a bloody awful case of nerves. The man could not even sit still and enjoy a pleasant smoke. Puffed and paced about like a rampant dragon, he did. Dreadful spectacle he was at times. And yet I, who had confronted and dismissed the spectral properties of tobacco, was able to enjoy my little pipe in perfect peace. There’s a lesson to jot down in the old copybook, eh?”

Chapman nodded. “I suppose so, sir.”

“I mention it only as an interesting footnote to yesterday’s discussion … ah, here we are.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Craft set aside his pipe, and both men rose and straightened their jackets as the door opened to admit Mr. Granville, accompanied by a small entourage.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Granville said, extending his hand. “Craft, old man, how are you?”

“Very well, sir. This is my assistant, Mr. Chapman.”

“How are you, son? Splendid … This is Miss Tanner, and Miss Leighton.” The ladies, who had the look of good healthy country girls about them, smiled and nodded. “And this fellow is Dr. Brickhouse.”

“Charles Gordon Brickhouse, Mr. Craft,” the doctor said, shaking Craft’s hand firmly. He was extraordinarily young for a doctor, and he wore an extraordinarily large pair of round spectacles. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Thank you, I’m sure,” Craft said. “Now, gentlemen — and ladies — my preparations are complete. Is there anything I should be advised of at this point?”

“Ah, yes,” Granville said. “It has been requested that the brace not be used. Which request I am eager to grant, if there is no objection from you.”

“None at all, if I can be assured that it will not be needed. I would insist that it be kept on hand, at any rate. Things do tend to go awry at crucial moments, in spite of the best intentions, so it is always best to be prepared.”

“We are quite confident,” Granville said, glancing at the two women, “that it will not be required. McCarthy will have it handy, though. Out in the corridor.”

“No worries, then,” Craft said. “Now, Granville, who will attend?”

“Miss Tanner, Miss Leighton, and Mrs. Lovestone, of course. And myself, of course.”

“I see. No more than that?”

“Well, McCarthy will be stationed outside in the corridor. In the odd event he’s needed for something.” Granville scratched his head. “Sorry to say, the Reverend Thomas will not attend.”

“Pity. Well, Granville, the north wall for you, then?”

“So ‘tis.”

“And the ladies,” Craft went on, nodding in their direction, “to remain near the west wall entrance, unless some emergency dictates otherwise. So we’ll have the entrance, then Granville, you’ll do your bit, after which Chapman and I will see to the rest. Satisfactory?”

“Quite,” Granville said.

“Now afterwards, if the ladies would promptly exit to the corridor, followed by Chapman and myself, and finally you Granville, to see things sealed up. After which of course, we will meet down at the surgery to consult Dr. Brickhouse, at his convenience.”

“Topping!” Dr. Brickhouse exclaimed, in a rather inappropriate fashion. “And I’d like to be off to the surgery now, if you would excuse me.”

Granville nodded, and the doctor departed, as did Miss Tanner and Miss Leighton.

“Ruddy queer, that one is,” Granville remarked, shaking his head. “Strangest sort of manner about him. Comes highly recommended, though. Said to be as competent as can be.”

“Not an unusual combination, in a profession such as his,” Craft replied.

“Aye. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“Any word from the Home Office?”

“Oh, Lord no.” Granville chuckled. “There won’t be, believe me. Not this time.”

At a few minutes before eight o’clock, Craft removed the safety bolt from the trap, and slid the wall partition all the way back, so that the two adjoining rooms now formed a single large one. A small folding table had been set up beside the door to the corridor, and Chapman was carefully arranging their bits of gear on the surface. Granville stood near the north wall, holding his sleeve pulled back to keep his wrist watch visible. He wasn’t looking at the watch, though. His eyes were fixed on the archway in the west wall, which was blocked by a wooden panel.

Chapman finished his task, and set the grip bag out of the way near the south wall. He joined Craft, and the two men examined one another to make sure that nothing was amiss with their attire.

“Thirty seconds, gentlemen,” Granville said in a hushed tone.

Craft and Chapman turned to face the wooden panel in the west wall, which was about three paces away. Presently, Granville reached over to the wall and gave it a couple of sharp knocks.

The wooden panel slid aside, smoothly and abruptly. A few seconds later Mrs. Lovestone walked through the archway, followed by Miss Leighton and Miss Tanner.

“Good Morning, Madam,” Craft said, stepping forward.

“Oh, hello again,” Mrs. Lovestone replied in a cheerful tone. “Didn’t expect to see you quite so quickly.”

“May I have your hands at your sides, please? Thank you.”

Craft reached out in Chapman’s direction, and Chapman placed the pinion strap in his hand. Craft looped it quickly around Mrs. Lovestone’s waist and buckled it. Two leather loops were attached to it, which he swiftly buckled around her wrists.

“Have you anything to say, Mrs. Lovestone?” Granville asked.

“Only to say thanks to the girls, for being so kind,” she said, in a sweet voice. “Sorry to you, Governor, for being so much trouble. And good-bye and good luck to the rest of you lot.”

Granville nodded to Craft, who took Mrs. Lovestone by the elbow and led her to the trap door. Granville’s prediction that the back brace would be unnecessary proved quite correct, for the woman did not falter in the slightest. It was not even necessary to tell her to position her feet on the chalk marks; she marched right to the spot as if rehearsed.

Chapman had followed behind, holding the ankle strap in one hand and the white hood in the other. Craft snatched the hood and slipped it over Mrs. Lovestone’s head, following it immediately with the noose. Chapman meanwhile crouched at her feet and strapped her ankles together, fumbling slightly with it, but getting the job promptly done all the same. Craft pulled the knot tight and positioned it behind Mrs. Lovestone’s left ear.

As Craft and Chapman stepped quickly clear of the trap door, Mrs. Lovestone said something else from beneath the hood, some odd remark about something or other being nice. Craft couldn’t quite hear it. He went to the lever and gripped the handle, glancing over to make sure that Chapman was clear, and that Mrs. Lovestone was not fainting and about to topple. No worries on either account.

Well, off you go, then, he thought, springing the trap. And off she went.

They exited the room as planned, and McCarthy locked the door. No one spoke as they descended the stairs and walked down the corridor to the surgery. The door was open, and they could see Dr. Brickhouse’s assistant inside, laying out the instruments on the metal table. There were some creaking noises in the room beyond, as the doctor climbed the stepladder and did his bit. Confident that all had gone well, Craft took out his notebook and began making his final entries.

After a few minutes Dr. Brickhouse joined them, fiddling about with his stethoscope.

“The rupture and separation appears to be quite clean,” he announced. “At about the third cervical vertebra, I should think. I detected a single heartbeat only. No fault in the procedure is apparent to me, from the medical point of view.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Granville said. “Then the room will be locked up for one hour, in accordance with the law. See to it, Miss Leighton. Thanks awfully, Craft. If you gentlemen will excuse me … must go and ring up the Home Office.”

“Mr. Craft,” Chapman whispered, “would you excuse me? I’d like to take some air, sir.”

“Of course, lad.”

Craft finished his entries and looked up to see Dr. Brickhouse grinning broadly at him, rather like a peddler with a remarkable new household device.

“Another one for the textbooks, eh, Mr. Craft?”

“Textbooks?” Craft frowned. “If such a textbook exists, I have never read it, Doctor.”

“Write one yourself, perhaps. You put the neatest ninety-degree twist on that one that I’ve ever witnessed. I’d heard about your work before, you know. Always the highest praises.”

“Kind of you to say so.”

“Your assistant … Mr. Chapman, was it? I must say, he came over awfully pale. Chap’s never been on a job with a woman before, has he?”

“He has not,” Craft admitted, in a tone meant to signal the doctor that he was asking about something that was not quite his business. “So any discomfort he experienced is quite understandable, and not to be interpreted as a professional fault.”

“Some professionals never do adjust to working with women.” The impertinent doctor had now taken on a philosophical tone. “It is certain that Mr. Fitch never did. It was what led Mr. Fitch to do himself in. After that job he did on Jane Underwood, which was an utter botch.”

“Is that so?” Craft asked coolly. “I must say … Did you know Mr. Fitch, Dr. Brickhouse?”

“No, not myself. My father knew him well. My father was in the practice, you know.”

“Your father was in my profession?”

“Good Heavens, no!” the doctor said, laughing. “My father was in the medical practice, of course. He attended here for three years, and more than twenty at Pentonville. Thirty-five hangings, all told. And he performed the autopsy on Fitch.”

“Did he now?” Craft tucked his notebook away. “Well, I do remember being told that poor Mr. Fitch had committed suicide, but the circumstances were never disclosed.”

“The details of how he did it, you mean?” Dr. Brickhouse indulged himself in a good hearty laugh, apparently determined to treat the morning’s business as a sort of jolly picnic outing. “Good Heavens, man! How do you think he did it?”

“If you will excuse me, Dr. Brickhouse, I would like to go and have a word with Mr. Chapman.”

Bloody silly bastard, he thought as he walked away. The prison bell began to toll.

He found Chapman in the yard, leaning with one hand braced against the wall and his head bowed. Craft hoped the poor lad had not had to vomit. Made a rather poor show of things, when a man had to vomit on the job — But ah, Craft reminded himself, even the best men are not made of stone.

“Ahem. Well, how are you bearing up, Chapman?”

“Did I do everything all right, sir?”

“Absolutely, lad. Splendid show, start to finish. If you’re feeling a bit shagged out, don’t worry yourself about it. It’s perfectly understandable.”

“Is she dead, then? Right now, I mean?”

“Certainly she is dead by now,” Craft said, rather concerned about the tone of Chapman’s voice. “And you’ll do yourself no good to dwell on it like that. It is the Crown that condemns them, Chapman, not you or I. The Crown condemns men, and sometimes the Crown condemns women. It is no more our doing … than is the sun or the rain.”

Chapman turned to face him, and Craft was alarmed by the ghastly pallor of his face. “Chapman, you’re ill. I think we should have you over to the infirmary at once.”

“You don’t understand, do you, sir?”

“Understand what?”

“Did you not hear what she said?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” Craft answered. “To be truthful, I never listen to much of anything they say. I’ve never known them to convey useful information. Sounds a lot of rubbish, mostly —”

“She said, Nice to see you again, Richard!”

“Did she? Did she, indeed? What a dreadfully odd thing to say — Oh, bloody hell, Chapman. Oh, but is this is bloody awkward. I’m quite at a loss for words. What a rotten stroke of luck …”

“Of course,” Chapman sighed, “I knew it before she spoke. I knew the instant that I saw her walk out of the cell. Before I saw her, even. I think it knew it were Mary from … from the air that she pushed into the room in front of her. And my soul went instant cold.”

“Might I suggest another interpretation?” Craft said earnestly. “You are mistaken, both in your recognition and in your interpretation of her last words, which were barely audible to me, I might add —”

“Mary Godfrey,” Chapman said bitterly, closing his eyes. “Mary’s name, it were Mary Godfrey. That Mrs. Lovestone was born Mary Godfrey, wasn’t she, Mr. Craft?”

“Ah.” Craft bowed his head sadly. “I’m sorry to say, that is correct. And the possibility of coincidence … one ought to always consider the possibility of coincidence, you know … ah, well, alas! In this case, I must admit, the possibility of coincidence would seem to be remote. Hardly worth the time it would take to calculate it, to any degree of exactitude … Chapman, I am most dreadfully sorry. What a bleeding rotten stroke of luck. My heart goes out to you, lad.”

“I got no heart now … to go anywhere with, Mr. Craft.”

“If you knew from the moment she entered the chamber,” Craft said, “how were you able to — you know, push on?”

“What was I to do?” Chapman said, in a heart-rending voice. “Make a fuss, and mess up the job, just to prolong her suffering? What have you always told me, sir? ‘The quicker the kinder,’ you said.”

“My very words, indeed, Chapman.” Although, Craft thought, I detected precious little evidence of suffering in the late Mrs. Lovestone. She seemed as if she might have withstood being drawn and quartered with perfect aplomb.

“I wish I’d looked at her yesterday, when you weighed her, sir. One look and I’d have known. Even then, just being within twelve feet of her put her into my mind! Do you remember, sir? It was right afterwards that I mentioned Mary to you, without even knowing why I’d thought of her. Oh God, if only I could have known then, even if there was naught to be done for it!”

“I assure you I would have spared you the ordeal, Chapman,” Craft said. “Might have given the Home Office a stir, but arrangements would have been made …”

“What’s the use of it, sir?” Chapman murmured. “Oh, what’s the bloody use of any of it? And love least of all? What’s the use of love, when the world says there’s a war, and I had to go and leave her? And then the world says she’s guilty, so I had to go and kill her?”

“Yes,” Craft said. “Yes, the scale of human events does tend to overwhelm one at times, if not viewed in the proper perspective. A philosophical problem that troubled the Greeks long before you or I were born, Chapman. The individual does find it difficult to establish his significance, what with the vast and heartless cosmos, and all.”

“I guess there’s no answer, then,” Chapman said weakly. “If there was, I suppose no one would tell me. P’raps I wouldn’t care to listen if they did.”

Now this forlorn state that poor Chapman was in, standing there all lifeless and bereft and staring off into empty space, did indeed move Craft’s heart to pity. He could scarcely imagine what Mrs. Craft would say when she heard of it. Craft paced for moment, trying to think of some remedy to this disastrous affair. Though Chapman’s prospects for future happiness seemed bleak indeed, Craft’s mathematical intuition told him that some elusive variable had been left out of the grim equation; which variable, properly factored in, might very well transform the result entirely …

“Good Lord, Chapman!” Craft halted suddenly, bits of gravel grinding under his shoes. “Have you stopped to consider how bloody awfully lucky you are to be standing there?”

“Where should I be standing, sir?”

“I’ll tell you where, Chapman. In the bleeding Elysian Fields, I should think. On the banks of the bonny old Styx. Are you really unfamiliar with the details of this Lovestone business? I must say, that’s what one gets for not reading the papers. Not that the case was given a particularly sensational treatment, being so open and shut, and lacking in suspense —”

“I don’t think I could bear to hear it, sir,” Chapman protested.

“But you must hear it, lad,” Craft insisted. “And you must hear it straight away! Your Mary, Mrs. Lovestone, poisoned her husband, the late Mr. Lovestone, upon a motive of monetary gain.”

“Oh,” Chapman said listlessly. “He were rich, then?”

“No, he was not. The late Mr. Lovestone was a man of fair but modest means, a small proprietor of some sort, with a shop in Leicester. But the poor man’s corpse yielded a rich bounty, thanks to the extravagant insurance policy that Mrs. Lovestone had persuaded him to take. Poor beggar! Everyone said that he suffered his wife like a crown of thorns, enduring cold treatment and many infidelities. There was ample testimony to that effect — disgraceful thing to read about. But although he was accounted to be a level-headed fellow, his affection for his wife was such that he could not see her fault.”

“Really, sir? Well, I can believe that. Had a way about her, Mary did.”

“She certainly had her way about the late Mr. Lovestone, Chapman. They were engaged within a fortnight of their first meeting. And a scant six months elapsed after that, ‘ere she bustled him off to Kingdom Come.”

“Oh. And it were all proven, and that?”

“Not only was it proven, Chapman, but upon her conviction, Mary Lovestone confessed to having dispatched no fewer than three previous husbands, two in Rhodesia and one in Portsmouth. Furthermore, during her marriage to Mr. Lovestone, she had managed to bigamously acquire a fifth husband in the Channel Islands, and that poor love-struck sod was down there sitting about, filling out insurance application forms and awaiting his own turn on the chopping block!”

“I can’t believe it.”

“In all cases, it seemed, her feminine charms deprived good sound men of their otherwise excellent senses, and ultimately, their lives.”

“Bloody awful.” Chapman shook his head in bewilderment. “Bloody awful, sir! But I can well see how Mary done it, Mr. Craft, after the way she done me …”

“And yet, Chapman,” Craft said, “by her own statement, she was utterly incapable of feeling any affection for them in return. Or indeed, for any human being. She had no more regard for them than she would for a box of matches. A learned fellow from King’s College discoursed upon her case in the Sunday Times, and he spilled a stupendous amount of Latin trying to explain it. Rather overdid it, I thought, for it all seemed plain enough to me. This woman, who caused mens’ hearts to quicken everywhere she went, had no heart of her own. Lad, this Mary of yours could not even feel remorse for what she did. She openly mocked the very suggestion of remorse! Her confession, she said, was motivated solely by the desire to see things tidied up a bit, whatever that means.”

“She were one for neatness, true,” Chapman said wistfully. “Near as I recall.”

“Lad, are you not hearing what I’m saying? Do you not realize how lucky you are?”

“Lucky? But —-” Chapman’s eyes widened suddenly. “Oh, bloody hell. I think I do see your point, sir.”

“Chapman, you have had an extraordinarily narrow escape!”

“Why, I think you’re right, Mr. Craft. Had a near brush a time or two, out in the war, of course, which rattled me up a bit. But I don’t guess I was ever lined up as neat and clean as that. Why, it’s the purest bloody wonder that I’m standing here to tell it, sir!”

“Indeed.”

“Bloody scraper, that one was!” Chapman stirred, clapping his hands to his chest as if to make doubly certain that he was still corporeal. “She’d have done me sure, I know it. I’d have marched right to it, without never suspecting, just like them others did. But I was spared, I was. It’s the plain Grace of God, Mr. Craft, if ever I saw it.”

“Though I am not by nature a professing man,” Craft mused, “I would not object to such an interpretation, as it would seem to be consistent with the facts.”

“It were right what you said the other day, sir. I’ve been acting the bloody fool. A man don’t know who he is, exactly, or what he’s got … until he comes a hair away from having it all snuffed.”

“A lesson for the copybook, indeed.” Craft seized his assistant by the shoulder and gave him the gravest possible look. “Chapman my lad, I want you to regard your escape as a new lease of life.”

“A new lease of life,” Chapman repeated, in an almost reverent tone. “Why, that’s just it, isn’t it?”

“And you had ought to conduct yourself with the confidence and humility of a man who has been reprieved, and awarded a second chance.”

“I shall, sir. By God I swear it, I shall!” Chapman beamed, looking every inch his old cheerful self. “I’ll guess I’ll be over Mary good and proper now, won’t I, sir? What with her going off and all. It’s like a great weight is lifted off me, now. Thank you, sir. Thank you!”

“And so the whole ghastly business was happily concluded, Emma,” Craft said, completing his account.

“Well, I hope so, John, for Richard’s sake.”

“Although … I’m well aware that you might find this conclusion objectionable, Emma, as it would seem to leave the original question unresolved.” Craft carefully carved his roast beef with swift, efficient strokes. “Namely, the phenomenon of so-called ‘love at first sight’.”

“Eat some of that up now, John, before you cut any more,” Mrs. Craft cautioned. “It isn’t good for you to carve it all to bits first, it makes you eat too fast.”

“Right you are, dear. Now, it is true that I scoffed at young Chapman’s account of his infatuation with Mrs. Lovestone, or Mary Godfrey, as she was then called …”

“I’m sure Richard wouldn’t lie, John.”

“‘Twas not a question of lying, Emma. It was a question of mistaken belief.” Craft paused to chew. “Or so I thought. But I’ve quite changed my opinion, now.”

“Really?” Mrs. Craft looked up from her sewing in surprise. “So you believe in ‘love at first sight’?”

“Repugnant as the notion is, yes.”

“Well, that’s a turn. And after you carried on so …”

“Indeed I did, but one must face facts. And one can hardly deny the existence of a phenomenon that has killed four men dead as stones, and nearly did for six. Can one?”

“Oh, John, please don’t speak of that,” Mrs. Craft said, shaking her head. “That beastly woman. Just be glad that Richard wasn’t killed, and say no more about it.”

“Of course, Emma. But at any rate, the existence of the phenomenon must be admitted, and classified as established but yet to be explained.” Craft realized that he had cut his roast beef completely to bits while he was talking, without meaning to. Fortunately, a cabbage leaf served as a handy expedient. He pulled it partially over the beef, so the damage would escape Mrs. Craft’s notice. “In time, it will yield to science. The history of human knowledge is filled with many examples of this. The seemingly inexplicable is picked apart bit by bit, and what is thought to be fantastic is found to be no more unnatural than wind or rain.”

“I’m sure you’re right, John. Look what they’ve done with the tuberculosis.”

“But one thing is quite certain, Emma,” Craft said, after another chew. “‘Love at first sight’, real though it may be, is a positive menace. Your remark about tuberculosis is spot on, my dear. ‘Love at first sight’ ought to be regarded as a disease, an affliction, and treated as such. Not mongered about by foolish romance novels, to spread like contagion. Something ought to be done to counter that.”

“What, foolish novels?” Mrs. Craft laughed. “Well, you know what you always say, John. Every fool is a teacher, you always say.”