‘By gum, yes, there’s that, but what a gamble! With that fortune she could have hoped for better, wouldn’t you say?’

‘She could hardly hope for worse, in my opinion.’

‘Well, then,’ Fox reasoned, ‘suppose we count those two out. Look at the rest of the field.’

‘I do so without enthusiasm. They all thought the Will announced at the Birthday Dinner was valid. Desdemona, Millamant, Dr Withers and the servants expected to do moderately well; Thomas’s expectations were handsome. The Kentish family, and the Claude Ancreds got damn all. In the “haves” the only motive is cupidity, in the “have-nots,” revenge.’

‘Opportunity?’ Fox speculated.

‘If an analysis of the medicine bottle proves negative, we’re left with the Thermos flask, now sterilized, and as far as we can see, Miss O. Unless you entertain a notion of delayed action with Barker inserting arsenic in the crayfish.’

‘You will have your joke, Mr Alleyn.’

‘You should have heard me trifling with Miss Able,’ Alleyn grunted. ‘That was pretty ghastly, if you like.’

‘And the exhumation’s on,’ Fox ruminated after another long silence. ‘When?’

‘As soon as we’ve got the order and Dr Curtis can manage it. By the way, Ancreton Church is above the village over there. We’ll have a look at the churchyard while the light still holds.’

And presently they climbed a gentle lane, now deep in shadow, and pushed open a lych-gate into the churchyard of St Stephen’s, Ancreton.

It was pleasant after the dubious grandeurs of the manor house to encircle this church, tranquil, ancient, and steadfastly built. Their feet crunched loudly on the gravelled path, and from the hedges came a faint stir of sleepy birds. The grass was well kept. When they came upon a quiet company of headstones and crosses they found that the mounds and plots before them were also carefully tended. It was possible in the fading light to read inscriptions. ‘Susan Gascoigne of this parish. Here rests one who in her life rested not in well-doing.’ ‘To the Memory of Miles Chitty Bream who for fifty years tended this churchyard and now sleeps with those he faithfully served.’ Presently they came upon Ancred graves. ‘Henry Gaisbrook Ancreton Ancred, fourth baronet, and Margaret Mirabel, his wife.’ ‘Percival Gaisbrook Ancred,’ and many others, decently and properly bestowed. But such plain harbourage was not for the later generations, and towering over this sober company of stone rose a marble tomb topped by three angels. Here, immortalized in gold inscriptions, rested Sir Henry’s predecessor, his wife, his son Henry Irving Ancred, and himself. The tomb, Alleyn read, had been erected by Sir Henry. It had a teak and iron door, emblazoned in the Ancred arms, and with a great keyhole.

‘It’ll be one of these affairs with shelves,’ Fox speculated. ‘Not room enough for the doctor, and no light. It’ll have to be a canvas enclosure, don’t you reckon, Mr Alleyn?’

‘Yes.’