‘No,’ she said. ‘I was their guest. Jeremy was introducing me to them all for the first time. I didn’t want to let him down.’

‘What about later?’ he said. ‘Did you mention the incident to anyone later?’

‘Who do you mean?’ she asked. He could not tell whether the questions had surprised her or if she was stalling for time.

‘Well, Jeremy, for instance. I suppose you talked to him about it. When you gave him a lift to the end of the valley? You did give him a lift to the end of the valley?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

‘And you talked about Ursula Ottway and the buzzard?’

‘I asked him if he knew anything about it. He said of course he didn’t and that his father must have given instructions to the keepers behind his back.’

‘Did he tell you what he was going to do about it?’

‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘He sounded quite helpless. I’ve told you, Marcus Grenville is an intimidating man.’

There was a pause while an elderly waitress brought plates and dishes.

‘Did you mention the incident to anyone else?’ George asked. ‘Did you tell one of the Animal Rights Group, perhaps? It would be useful ammunition, wouldn’t it, in their fight to stop shooting on the Cadver Estate? It would be hard to resist, I should have thought, the opportunity to pass on information like that.’

‘I considered it,’ she said. ‘Using poison to control birds of prey isn’t only illegal, it’s barbarous. I should have told someone in the group.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘ I didn’t. I care too much for Jeremy. I forgot about my principles because I wanted to protect him.’

Then he looked at her with sympathy. ‘It’s always a difficult choice to make,’ he said, and he began to talk about nature conservation and the compromises he’d had to make in his career. When the meal was over she was sorry that she had to go. He gave her a card, and wrote the Back Rigg phone number on the back. She promised to contact him if ever the need arose, though she told him, quite definitely, that she did not see why it should.

Chapter Thirteen

As George drove out of Appleworth, copies of the evening edition of a Carlisle daily newspaper were being set up on a stand outside a newsagent shop. A small balding man was struggling to fasten an advertising board on to the shop window but the gusty wind kept blowing it down. The man was wheezing, obviously asthmatic, and George wondered if he should stop to offer help, but as he pulled in to the side of the road the man fixed the board into position and disappeared into the shop.

‘WHO KILLED URSULA OTTWAY?’ screamed the large bold writing on the poster. ‘Local MP implicated. Read tonight’s Chronicle.’