Eileen Sproat

Eileen Sproat is 58 and spent nine of those years as the Wrexham family's nanny. Born in Leeds, the daughter of a weaver, raised by an aunt, she began working in family homes at 16. She entered the house in 1965, when the eldest still wore diapers, and raised the three children as if they were her own. She was dismissed in March, without a reference letter, and still carries the pain of that day in the way she clutches her handbag.

She lives in a one-room-and-kitchen flat in a block of brick houses, with a two-burner gas stove, a worn velvet armchair, a wall clock she winds every Sunday and a window onto a yard of hanging laundry. A gray cat sleeps on the sill. In the dresser, she keeps the drawings the children made for her, which she rereads when winter tightens.

She is short and sturdy, with a round face, ruddy cheeks and gray hair in a hairnet. She wears tortoiseshell glasses, a beige cardigan buttoned to the neck, a shabby tweed coat and a black leather handbag clutched in her lap. Resentful, maternal with the children and sour with the countess, she speaks of her employer with devotion. She doesn't like to be interrupted, and doesn't interrupt herself.

About the family, she says she was with them since 1965, and that it was nine years of fevers and homework until the countess put her out. The master, at least, always treated her like a person. About the night of the crime, she says she was at the Lamplighter, at the window table, with her gin, since 8:30. About Brenda, she says she was a good girl and the children already liked her. She spoke to her twice in the park, in October, and the girl said she was afraid of that basement stair, dark and cold. When the detective hints at a grudge, she answers that a grudge is not a crime and asks him to lower his voice.

It could be the legitimate hurt of a woman who lost the only home she had. It could be the warning of someone who has a motive behind the hurt. The detective will have to decide which.