It was dark on the lower deck and smelled of leather seats. Surprisingly, it was quite musty.
   Miss Marble glanced towards the steep, narrow staircase that led to the upper deck. She took a few steps forward and reached for the handrail. She knew just how important it was not to lose one's grip, for to do so could send her skidding down the stairs and her shopping flying out onto the street. She might even end up following it herself. Not that she had any shopping to lose; the impromptu investigation had seen to that.
   As she began her ascent, Miss Marble spoke to Detective Tomms as he followed (far too closely) behind. 'There are quite a few people travelling this time of morning.'
   'That is so.'
   'Let us hope that their tongues will be lucid.'
   'They have not been thus far,' muttered the detective.
   From above their heads came the sound of one of the windows being closed. Even though the engine was still running, the temparature on the top deck was far from comfortable. Closing the windows would do little to improve the situation.
   Mary Woolworth sat at the front of the bus. Due to the unforeseen events, she had had little time to finish her knitting of a new woollen scarf since boarding the vehicle at the preceding bus stop. It had been a request stop and, upon holding out her hand to signal the bus to come to a halt, she had dropped her ball of wool. Yet, curiously, upon turning to retrieve it from the pavement, the ball of Cashmere wool was nowhere to be seen. Could one of the other people in the queue have picked it up?
   With an elbow on the window-sill, his head pressed to that of his wife Carol's, Raymond Pontin gazed out into the grey depths of the morning. Nervously, he repeated the same words over and over again: 'You do see it, don't you, that he's been killed?'
   Carol Pontin coughed gently. She said, her voice deep and hoarse: 'It's horrible…'
   'It's not more horrible than this! You do see it, don't you, that he's been killed?'
   Abruptly, Carol screamed hysterically: 'I can't go on like this - I just can't... I must do something... Knit one, pearl one... But there isn't anything I can do... Knit one, pearl one.''
   Raymond's voice was hushed and unconvincing. 'If we could only get away somehow—?'
   'There's the stiff,' said Detective Tomms and gestured towards the back seat. He nudged a young man sitting in one of the seats on the right-hand side of the walkway and the two men stared out of the window with round bucolic eyes and slightly open mouths.
   A small pink Mini Cooper had just stopped in front of the local post office. A girl jumped out, a girl wearing a pink Biba corduroy cap and a midi-dress that looked (but only looked) inexpensive. She was a girl with short golden hair and straight autocratic features–a girl with a lovely shape–a girl the like of which was seldom seen in Clapham Junction. With a spring in her step she passed into the post office.
   'Woof-woof!' said Detective Tomms in a low awed voice.
   'Please try to concentrate on the case,' chided Miss Marble. 'There's nothing to see there.'
   And, of course, as always, she was quite correct. For there was, indeed, nothing to see. Just the body of a young African, the heads of the twenty-three passengers, and the long, poorly-lit corridor of the upper deck strewn with a multitude of gaily-coloured balls of Cashmere wool.
   'This may take some time!' suggested Miss Marble.