Mrs. Black’s panic had dissolved her control.

“That’s always a possibility, Mrs. Black,” said George, stiff, formal. “But I don’t think so. We need to find Terry. He’s the only person who can help us. If you can think of anywhere he may be hiding, any friend he may have gone to, will you telephone us? Then we can clear him of suspicion.”

His authority and formality reassured her. She believed him, believed implicitly that Terry was alive. She smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“I’ve been a silly old woman,” she said. “ Find him and bring him home.”

When they left Mrs. Black, George went to the Cranshaws’ house and Molly went to the Windmill to ask discreetly if anyone had seen Adam on the previous day.

George did not expect Bernard Cranshaw to be there—he would surely, be at work in Skeffingham—but he could speak to Mrs. Cranshaw about the day when she tripped down the stairs, the day Tom French died. Perhaps she would remember if Bernard went out at all while they were waiting for the doctor. Bernard had told George that he was on the marsh on the morning of Tom’s death. But what time did he go? Jack had heard voices in the Cranshaw house when he returned to the marsh to dig bait. If Bernard was still there then, and if Terry had seen the murderer on his way to work, it would have been impossible for Bernard to have killed Tom. He hoped that Mrs. Cranshaw could bring a little more certainty to the situation.

He found the house quite easily. The road behind the Blue Anchor was more modern than most in the village. The houses had been built in the thirties. They were suburban, villa-style houses which looked quite incongruous by the side of the marsh. It was a grey, damp day and George was aware of a faint, unpleasant smell, which the westerly winds carried from a chemical plant many miles inland. He stood for a while outside the house which was furthest from the village, nearest to the sea. The effect of the salt wind could be seen on the paint, which was peeling away from the wooden door and window frames. In the garden a row of winter vegetables, sprouting and gone to seed, had been burnt black by salt spray. He knocked at the door and had to wait several minutes before there was any reply.

Inside, Mrs. Cranshaw was taking off her apron, arranging her hair, putting on lipstick, unable to face any visitor in her natural state. She was excited. She did not have many visitors. George Palmer-Jones saw a little, elderly lady with a thin face, who, but for the badly applied make-up and dyed, permed hair, would have been beautiful. The hair was so fine and the curls so tight that pink bald areas of scalp showed through the perm. As he stood on the doorstep George looked down on the strange pink and black head. As he watched the head tipped back and Margaret Cranshaw smiled up at him.