“Your idea would work very well here,” Molly observed.

George nodded distractedly and turned his attention to the track. It was pitted with ruts, where tyres had worn two grooves in the sand and the pebbles, but between the two grooves was a relatively level area of grass. He nodded again. It would be possible. He could be right.

They followed the track to the road, then walked along the opposite hedge, away from the village. George was looking for Terry’s short cut into the White Lodge grounds. It was, when they found it, quite obvious, and they wondered why they had not noticed it before. A small gate in the hedge led from the road into the Lodge park. Two wooden planks had been laid across the ditch to make a bridge for easy access. It must have been used quite regularly by the hotel staff.

“So you could be right,” Molly said. “ We’ve not seen anything to disprove your theory. Do you still need to see Bernard Cranshaw?”

“I need to talk to him to eliminate him. Practically, it’s just possible that he killed Tom. I’m certain that he wrote the letters to Sally. But I don’t think that his is the sort of madness which would lead him to kill. He just seems very depressed, but you’re the expert. I’ll be glad of your opinion. In any event he may be able to give us some information. He was out on the marsh early that morning, and he might have seen something.”

“According to Peter Littleton, he’s mad enough to kill,” she said. “When we were at Scarsea last weekend, he told me that Cranshaw was out on the marsh taking pot shots at him.”

“Was anyone else there when Peter Littleton told you?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Did he say if anyone else was on the marsh when Cranshaw was supposed to be shooting? What I mean is, was there anyone to confirm Peter’s story?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

It seemed that they had arrived at the Cranshaws’ in the middle of some domestic dispute. They could hear Mrs. Cranshaw as soon as they reached the front gate. The window was open and her words were clear and shrill. There was no anger in her voice. It was cold and relentless, the voice of a woman with a justifiable complaint.

“You never think of me. I thought you were different from your father but you’re not. You’re just the same. After all I’ve done for you. So, you’ve even started drinking. Just like him. He never talked to me unless he was drunk, and then it was only curses. I never thought you would take to drink. I thought you would have had more consideration for your mother.”

There was a scream, so high-pitched that for a moment they could not tell if it was a man or a woman. It was Bernard Cranshaw.

“Shut up,” he shouted. “I can’t stand any more. Leave me alone.”