Mark stood up. There was no colour in his face. “That has nothing to do with you,” he said. “It has nothing to do with you, or with the fact that two people have died, or with the fact that my best friend is a murderer.”

He walked away. George Palmer-Jones followed slowly into the lobby, but by then the boy was outside. As he watched Mark go, a Land Rover pulled through the gates and stopped in the yard. Savage got out. He lowered his head against the rain and strode towards the building. He pushed open the door, and George felt the cold wind and the rain, then the door swung back and the two men were together. Savage just stood, looked intently at Palmer-Jones.

“How’s the boy?” George asked.

“He’s not a juvenile, you know,” Savage said, not unkindly. Then: “He’s all right. I let him sleep last night, gave him a chance to think. We had a chat this morning, before he went to court.” He looked at George sharply. “You’re right. He’ll not admit it. But I reckon that we’ve got enough for a conviction. They remanded him in custody to the police cells.”

“Did you listen to the tape of our conversation last night?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that he’s clever. And frightened. And I think he’s got you fooled.”

“So you still think he did it?”

“Of course he did.”

The policeman laughed, not because he wanted to hurt the old man’s feelings but to make light of the differences between them. He could not reject Palmer-Jones completely just because of his silly ideas. He opened the door of the ringing room.

“Come on in. I’ve got the first forensic report, and I can fill you in on what we found last night. Come on. I’ve no hard feelings.”

George restrained his anger at this patronage, and followed the policeman into the ringing room. Savage sat at the desk, Palmer-Jones opposite.

“Did you get a good look at the body last night? Did you notice anything unusual?”

“No, I didn’t look. I left all that to your officer.”

Why did he not explain that he had rushed away to check the whereabouts of all the other residents?

“Martindale didn’t notice either. Can’t blame him, I suppose. He’s a young bloke. Inexperienced.” His tone implied that nevertheless he did blame Martindale. “The scene-of-crime chaps noticed though. Chloroform. There was a faint smell of it around the face. And a cloth that had been soaked with the stuff on the floor, by the bed.” He pointed to the pile of bird bags on the bench. “One of those things.”

“So that’s why she didn’t cry out.”

“Yes. She may even have been asleep when he went in. If she woke at all, it would only have been for a second.”

“No,” George said, “ she couldn’t have been asleep, because she relit the tilly.” He explained that Jerry Packham had heard the sound of the tilly being pumped. “ Unless,” he continued almost to himself, “it wasn’t Pamela who lit the tilly. But if it was the murderer, why bother? A torch would have done just as well. And we all have torches.”