There was a man at the door to number eight, Higham Crescent, his bald head pink under the tin comb-over. He wore a suit and carried both briefcase and a large metal box. He scowled as they approached. “Are you relatives of Mrs. Fenshaw? She called for an emergency doctor but she's not answering the door. I'll admit to being afraid for her welfare. I've just called the police to break in but if you've got a key...”
“I'm her nephew.” Jasfoup smile made the lie easy to believe. “Let me nip in and see what's up with her, and if she still needs you I'll let you in.”
“I'm supposed to see the patient. Even if she's fit and well, I'm required to make an examination.”
“I'm sure that'll be fine. We can all have a cuppa, couldn't we Harold?”
“We could?” Harold felt as if he'd been ambushed by an aunt he hadn't seen for years. “We could. I'll put the kettle on, shall I?”
“That's the ticket.” Jasfoup went to the door and used his body to shield the lock as he pretended to insert a key. Harold watched Devious open a tunnel in the front porch and, a moment later, open the front door from the inside. It certainly looked as though Jasfoup had opened it himself.
“Auntie's probably still in bed,” said Sefskapoi, helpfully giving Jasfoup enough information to find the mirror he'd trapped Mrs Fenshaw inside. “You know what she's like when she's taken her pills.”