George felt that he should take the initiative in the interview, but his lethargy was such that Sally spoke first.

“I want to help you find out who killed Tom,” she said in answer to an unasked question. “ It’s the only way I can come to terms with the fact that he’s dead.”

“You must have cared for him very much,” said Molly gently.

“No,” Sally replied. “Not very much at all. But he was so kind to me … He gave me more than I was ever able to return. If I had been able to give him some real affection, if he had been able to believe that I loved him, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so dreadful now. But I wanted to be free of him and he died. It feels as if I killed him. So now I want to do something to show that I did care, in a way. Besides, I’ve got my own reasons for needing to know who killed him.”

She took three brown envelopes from her bag. One was still unopened. George read the two notes and, after Sally had nodded her approval, he handed them to Molly. He looked carefully at the envelopes.

“When did these arrive?” he asked.

“One on the morning that Tom died, and one on Monday. This,” she held up the unopened letter, her hand trembling, “came the day I phoned you.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

She took a deep breath. “I’ll open it now. It’s no good just pretending that this isn’t happening.”

“Oh,” she said, very quietly. “Oh, it’s horrible.”

It was written in the same uneven capitals. She was blinking back the tears. She showed them.

“Because of you, Tom French is dead,” it said. “ Perhaps you will be next.”

“Have you told the police about these?”

She shook her head, still very upset.

“The police came to interview me, after Tom died. They weren’t very sympathetic. I just answered their questions. A letter calling me a whore seemed pretty unimportant compared with Tom’s death.”

“You’ll have to tell them now.”

“I suppose I will.”

“Have you any idea who could have sent them?”

She shook her head helplessly. She was too distressed to think constructively. “ Do you think they were sent by the same person who killed Tom?”

“I don’t know,” George said slowly, “I really don’t know. Have you ever heard of Bernard Cranshaw?”

“I can’t remember meeting him. I’ve heard Tom talk about him. It always sounded to me as if he was jealous of Tom.”

“I’m sure that you’re right. I’m asking because he’s the only person I’ve met who ever expressed any antipathy towards Tom.”

Sally did not respond at all.

“Is there anything else you can tell us which might help us to find out who killed him?”

She made an effort to pull herself together, to collect her thoughts.

“No, nothing specific. But I know that something happened the week before he died. About two months ago he was offered the chance of working full time for a tour company, leading bird watching holidays abroad. He hated working in the White Lodge and although he loved Rushy he was starting to get restless. It was the sort of thing he’d always wanted to do. The tour company was based in Bristol and he would have had to move there. He very much wanted to take the job—it was a good one and I think there’d been a lot of competition for it. I know that Rob Earl was angry. He felt that it should have been offered to him. Tom was worried about Barnaby and me.”