‘Yes. Of course.’ Finally, she stepped aside and we went into the homeliest of homes: floral curtains, patterned wallpaper, scattered rugs, furniture that was old without quite being antique, a cat asleep on a rocking chair. ‘I’m Susan Queripel. Please come this way.’ She led us past the open door of the living room and I glimpsed the picture window, an upright piano and two striped sofas.

‘Who is it, darling?’ It was Henry Queripel who had called out and a moment later we entered the kitchen, where three people were sitting around a stripped pine table with a kettle steaming gently on an Aga to one side.

Dr Queripel was nearest to the door. He was sitting at the head of the table with his foot dangling, one leg over his knee. I was surprised to see George Elkin, the historian, opposite him. The last person was a woman I had not yet met. She was next to Elkin and my first thought was that she might be his mother. She was twice his size and looked several years older than him. But not that old. On second thoughts, she had to be his wife. She looked cheerful enough, with jet-black hair cut short and a wide smile that dimpled her cheeks, but her massive weight was unnatural and I could see the discomfort in her eyes. She was suffering from some sort of thyroid disease and I even wondered if she was able to walk. Her smile faded as we came in.

‘Mr Hawthorne!’ Dr Queripel got to his feet. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’

‘He said he wanted to talk to you,’ Susan Queripel explained, as if she was to blame for letting us in.

All four of them were looking guilty and I could see why. We had interrupted what might have been a war council. There were leaflets and photographs scattered across the table and a great pile of flyers bearing the palindrome I’d seen as I left the airport: BAN NAB. About half a dozen makeshift signs with the same message in bright red letters had been prepared and were leaning against the far wall, waiting to be hammered into place. Elkin had smudges of paint on his fingers; caught, quite literally, red-handed.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ Hawthorne said cheerfully.

‘Not at all.’ If Dr Queripel had been embarrassed, he was recovering quickly. ‘Would you like to sit down? Can we offer you some tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘If you want to speak to me on my own, we can go next door.’

‘No. I’m happy to meet everyone.’

‘We’ve already met,’ George Elkin said. ‘This is my wife, Georgina. This gentleman is a detective,’ he told her. ‘He’s here about the murder.’

George and Georgina. Somehow it suited them.