“He was certainly trying to please us, but I think that there must have been at least some basis of truth.”

“Why do you think that he hasn’t said before that he saw the body? The police interviewed everyone in the hotel.”

“Perhaps they only asked very specific questions and didn’t give him the chance to tell them. Or perhaps they confused him and didn’t understand him. I wonder where he lives.”

“Ella will know.”

They walked in silence to the village. Ella’s cottage was the first house they came to, opposite the Blue Anchor. It was a short walk. There was a moon, but the hot weather had turned to thunder, and it was covered quite often by heavy storm clouds. The wind seemed to blow the dark shadows and the moonlight across the marsh. The strange light and their encounter with the peculiar Terry gave the evening a dream-like quality, which heightened the imagination. Molly found herself conjuring a thick fog and a dead man moving, ghostly and magical, towards the shingle. George was attempting to visualize in a more rational way what Terry could have seen.

Ella was in the kitchen. The curtains were not drawn and they could see her from the road. She was asleep in front of the Aga, her legs stretched in front of her, one strand of her long, dark hair falling across her forehead. Jack was standing at the table, his back to them. He was skinning a rabbit, deftly moving the sharp knife between skin and flesh. Beside him, leaning against the heavy dresser, was a gun. He turned to take the jointed rabbit and the mess of skin and guts into the scullery, and saw them. He smiled a welcome, and beckoned them to open the door to enter, while he went to wash his hands.

The door opened straight into the kitchen. The warmth and the light dazed them, and the smell of dogs and apples and strong tobacco. The noise of their entry wakened Ella. She stood up quickly, wondering how long they had been there, hurriedly tidying her dress and her hair, using the uncurtained window as a mirror. She sat them in the two comfortable chairs, apologizing because there was no fire in the lounge, and after putting the kettle on the range, she perched on a little wooden stool. Jack came back from the scullery with tumblers and a bottle of whisky. He was a tall, thin, angular man. He was still a little in awe of his wife, proud of her beauty, and he was content to let her do most of the talking.

She was talking now, amusing them with a story of a young twitcher who had offended her by questioning the validity of a piece of information she had passed to him. Silently Jack poured out large drinks, passed them round. He caught George’s eye and smiled.

“Well now, Ella,” he said slowly. “Why don’t you shut up and let George ask you some questions.”