The constable would have enjoyed a walk. He was a moralist and a philosopher, well known in Ancreton for his pronouncements upon the conduct of politicians and for his independent views in the matter of religion. But his companion’s taciturnity, and the uncomfortable knowledge that anything he said would be audible on the other side of the canvas, put a damper on conversation. He stamped once or twice, finding reassurance in the crunch of gravel under his feet. There were noises within the enclosure: voices, soft thumps. At the far end and high above them, as if suspended in the night, and lit theatrically from below, knelt three angels. ‘Through the long night watches,’ the constable said to himself, ‘may Thine angels spread their white wings above me, watching round my head.’

Within the enclosure, but, close beside him, the voice of the Chief Inspector from the Yard said: ‘Are we ready, Curtis?’ His shadowy figure suddenly loomed up inside the canvas wall. ‘Quite ready,’ somebody else said. ‘Then if I may have the key, Mr Ancred?’ ‘Oh—oh—er—yes.’ That was poor Mr Thomas Ancred.

The constable listened, yet desired not to listen, to the next too-lucid train of sounds. He had heard them before, on the day of the funeral, when he came down early to have a look while his cousin, the sexton, got things fixed up. Very heavy lock. They’d had to give it a drop of oil. Seldom used. His flesh leapt on his bones as a screech rent the cold air. ‘Them ruddy hinges,’ he thought. The blobs of light were withdrawn and the voices with them. He could still hear them, however, though now they sounded hollow. Beyond the hedge a match flared up in the dark. That would be the driver of the long black car, of course, waiting in the lane. The constable wouldn’t have minded a pipe himself.

The Chief Inspector’s voice, reflected from stone walls, said distinctly: ‘Get those acetylene lamps going, Bailey.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ someone answered, so close to the constable that he jumped again. With a hissing noise, a new brilliance sprang up behind the canvas. Strange distorted shadows leapt among the trees about the cemetery.

Now came sounds to which he had looked forward with squeamish relish. A drag of wood on stone followed by the uneven scuffles of boots and heavy breathing. He cleared his throat and glanced stealthily at his companion.

The enclosure was again full of invisible men. ‘Straight down on the trestles. Right.’ The squeak of wood and then silence.

The constable drove his hands deep into his pockets and looked up at the three angels and at the shape of St Stephen’s spire against the stars. ‘Bats in that belfry,’ he thought. ‘Funny how a chap’ll say it, not thinking.’ An owl hooted up in Ancreton woods.