‘I understand he is not the rector but his brother.’

‘Oo, yes,’ agreed the post office lady rattling her basket cuffs and flashing a smile. ‘That will be the old gentleman. Quayte an aydentity in the district. First to the left into Oakapple Lane and straight on to the end. “The Thatch.” It’s ever so unmistakable. The last residence on the left, standing back in its own grounds.’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Alleyn.

They found ‘The Thatch’ as she had predicted, without any difficulty. The grounds of its own in which it stood back were an eighth of an acre of charming cottage garden. Alleyn and Fox had only got half-way up the cobbled path when they came upon two rumps up-ended behind a tall border of rosemary and lavender. The first was clad in patched trousers of clerical grey, the second in the navy blue decency of a serge skirt. Fragrant herbs hid the rest of these two gardeners from view.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Alleyn, removing his hat.

With a slow upheaving movement, the Reverend and Mrs Walter Harris became wholly vertical and turned about.

‘Oh!’ they said gently. ‘Good afternoon.’

They were very old indeed and had the strange marital likeness that so often comes upon a man and woman who have worked together all their lives. Their faces, though they differed in conformation, echoed each other in expression. They both had mild grey eyes surrounded by a network of kindly lines; they were both weather-beaten, and each of their mouths in repose curved into a doubtful smile. Upon Mrs Harris’s hair rather than her head was a wide garden hat with quite a large rent in the crown through which straggled a straight grey lock or two. Her husband also wore well over his nose a garden hat, an ancient panama with a faded green ribbon. His long crêpey neck was encircled by a low clerical collar, but instead of the usual grey jacket an incredibly faded All Souls blazer hung from his sharp shoulder-blades. He now tilted his head backwards in order to look at Alleyn under his hat-brim and through his glasses, which were clipped half-way down his nose.

Alleyn said: ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, sir.’

‘No matter,’ said Mr Harris, ‘no matter.’ His voice had the authentic parsonic ring.

‘There’s nothing more maddening than to be interrupted when you’ve settled down to a good afternoon’s gardening,’ Alleyn added.

‘Twitch!’ said Mr Harris violently.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Twitch! It’s the bane of my existence. It springs up like veritable dragon’s teeth and I assure you it’s a great deal more difficult to extract. Three wheelbarrow loads since last Thursday forenoon.’

‘Walter,’ said his wife, ‘these gentlemen want to speak to you.’

‘We won’t keep you more than a few minutes, sir,’ said Alleyn.

‘Yes, dear. Where shall I take them?’

‘Into your den,’ said Mrs Harris, as if her husband was a carnivorous ravager.