‘You can’t say that for sure.’

Burden sat down. He tapped his fist lightly on the corner of the desk. ‘I can say. I knew Paxton, I knew him well.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘No, it was years back, before I came here. In Eastbourne, it was, when Paxton was with the Garfield gang. In the force down there we knew it was useless ever trying to get Paxton to talk. He never talked. I don’t mean he just didn’t give away any info, I mean he didn’t answer when you spoke to him. Various times we tried to interrogate him he just maintained this total silence. A mate of his told me he’d made it a rule not to talk to policemen or social workers or lawyers or any what you might call establishment people, and he never had. He talked to his wife and his kids and his mates all right. But I remember once he was in the dock at Lewes Assizes and the judge addressed him. He just didn’t answer – he wouldn’t – and the judge, it was old Clydesdale, sent him down for contempt. So don’t tell me Paxton made any sort of confession to Kenneth Gandolph, not Paxton.’

The effect of this was to reawaken all Wexford’s former doubts. He trusted Burden, he had a high opinion of his opinion. He began to wish he had advised Ireland to have tests made to determine the age of the ink used in the 29 February and 6 March entries, or to have the writing examined by a handwriting expert. Yet if Ada Hurst had had a stylized hand self-taught in adulthood . . . What good were handwriting experts anyway? Not much, in his experience. And of course Ireland couldn’t suggest to Gandolph that the ink should be tested without offending the man to such an extent that he would refuse publication of Poison at Paraleash to Carlyon Brent. But Wexford was suddenly certain that those entries were false and that Gandolph had forged them. Very subtly and cunningly he had forged them, having judged that the addition to the diary of just thirty-four words would alter the whole balance of the Winchurch case and shift the culpability from Florence to her lover.

Thirty-four words. Wexford had made a copy of the diary entries and now he looked at them again. 29 February: F destroyed twenty rats with strychnine from his dispensary. What a relief! 6 March: F left cigar case in the dining room, went back after seeing me home. I hope and pray there is no harm. There were no anachronisms – men certainly used cigar cases in 1900 – no divergence from Ada’s usual style. The word ‘twenty’ was written in letters instead of two figures. The writer, on 6 March, had written not about that day but about the day before. Did that amount to anything? Wexford thought not, though he pondered on it for most of the day.

That evening he was well into the last chapter of Put Money in Thy Purse when the phone rang. It was Jenny Burden. Would he and Dora come to dinner on Saturday? Her parents would be there and her brother.