“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?”

The abrupt question broke through the chat, and seemed impolite. Rob inhaled on a tiny stub of cigarette and shook his head slowly.

“He seemed to get on with everyone. Even the locals in the village liked him. He used to take the kids out birding. He was still a hippie at heart, he still believed in peace and love, wanted the world to like him. That’s why the business with Bernard made him so miserable.”

“Bernard?”

“Bernard Cranshaw. He’s a school teacher. He lives in Rushy and runs the RSPB group there. He started a Young Ornithologist club. You know, he’s Mr. Birdman, the local celebrity. People phone him up when the cat has fatally injured a blue tit and he gives talks to pensioners and WI groups. He loves it.”

“But he didn’t love Tom.”

“It was okay at first. Tom was respected and got Bernard to show him around. But Cranshaw’s eyesight wasn’t too good and Tom had a lot more experience of anything out of the ordinary, so Tom started to find most of the good stuff. When the rest of us arrived Bernard freaked out completely. He tried to throw us off the marsh one day. Said we were disturbing breeding birds. It was September! Then all his Young Ornithologists defected to Tom—they turned up at the hotel one day and asked if he would take them out. I can’t imagine anything more deadly than dragging around the marsh with a bunch of kids, but he was really touched. He didn’t know that they’d been going out with Bernard.”

“So how did Bernard make his displeasure known?”

“He wrote a mad letter to all the children’s parents. I mean, it was really mad, rambling. It said that he felt it was his duty to tell them that their children were being corrupted by a ‘degenerate young man with well-known immoral and anti-social tendencies.’ Those were the exact words. I remember Tom kept repeating them He was incredibly upset. He didn’t have a lot of confidence and he was shattered that someone should dislike him so much. The letter also said that Tom was a drug addict.”

“Was he?”

“No. He was terrified about drugs. Booze was okay, but he wouldn’t touch dope.”

“How did Tom find out about the letter?”

Rob seemed preoccupied. He was looking out of the window, watching the silver sparks as the waves broke on the sand, mesmerized by the movement. There seemed to be a cold grey light and the moonlight was less powerful. George repeated his question.

“Chris, the landlord in the Blue Anchor, told him. He and Tom were friends of a sort. It was Chris and his little boy who found the body.”

Rob turned from the window and saw that George was making notes, despite the near darkness.

“Still the civil servant,” he commented gently.

“Ah, I’m getting old,” Palmer-Jones replied. “ I can’t rely on memory any longer.”