Fox produced the particularly rigid felt hat that appears when his duties take him into the country. Will Pomeroy was in the front passage and Alleyn asked him if he might borrow one of a collection of old walking-sticks behind the door.

‘Welcome,’ said Will shortly.

‘Thank you so much. To get to Cary Edge Farm we turn off to the right from the main road, don’t we?’

‘Cary Edge?’ repeated Will and glared at them.

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘That’s where Miss Moore lives, isn’t it?’

‘She won’t be up-along this morning.’

‘What’s that, sonny?’ called old Abel from the private taproom. ‘Be the gentlemen looking for Miss Dessy? She’s on her way over by this time for Saturday marketing.’

Will moved his shoulders impatiently.

‘You know everyone’s business, Father,’ he muttered.

‘Thank you, Mr Pomeroy,’ called Alleyn. ‘We’ll meet her on the way, perhaps.’

‘‘Less she do drive over in old car,’ said Abel, coming to the door. ‘But most times her walks.’

He looked apprehensively at Will and turned back into the bar.

‘We’ll risk it,’ said Alleyn. ‘Back to lunch, Mr Pomeroy.’

‘Thank ‘ee, sir.’

Alleyn and Fox walked up to the tunnel mouth. When they reached it Alleyn glanced back at the Plume of Feathers. Will stood in the doorway looking after them. As Alleyn turned, Will moved back into the pub.

‘He will now telephone Cary Edge in case Miss Moore has not left yet,’ observed Alleyn. ‘No matter. She’ll have been expecting us to arrive sooner or later. Come on.’

They entered the tunnel.

‘Curious, Fox, isn’t it?’ said Alleyn, and his voice rang hollow against the rock walls. ‘Ottercombe must have been able to shut itself up completely on the landward side. I bet some brisk smuggling went forward in the old days. Look out, it’s slippery. Miss Moore must be an intrepid driver if she motors through here in all weathers.’

They came out into the sunshine. The highway, a dusty streak, ran from the tunnel. On each side the downs rolled along the coast in a haze of warmth, dappled by racing cloud shadows. Farther inland were the hills and sunken lanes, the prettiness of Devon; here was a sweep of country where Englishmen for centuries had looked coastwards, while ships sailed across their dreams and their thoughts were enlarged beyond the seaward horizon.

‘Turn to the right,’ said Alleyn.

They climbed the bank and rounded a furze bush in a sunken hollow.

‘Good spot for a bit of courting,’ said Fox, looking at the flattened grass.

‘Yes, you old devil. You may invite that remarkably buxom lady who brought our breakfast to stroll up here after hours.’

‘Mrs Ives?’

‘Yes. You’ll have to get in early, it’s a popular spot. Look at those cigarette butts, squalid little beasts. Hallo!’

He stooped and picked up two of them.