Doggett gives him the “We are not at liberty” speech and begins the usual routine questions. But Tyler can already see the answers reflected in the room. Does he live alone? There’s little enough room in the house for one man and his dog, let alone anyone else. How long has he been in the village? Long enough to accumulate the collected junk of several lifetimes. Was there ever a Mrs. Wentworth? One or two of the figurines show more taste than Tyler would ascribe to the gardener, and an attempt has been made at some point to match the furnishings with the décor, though the pattern’s easy to miss among the chaos. Most tellingly, perhaps, the face of a plain middle-aged woman peers out at them from the occasional photograph, smothered by the mess but not yet completely lost.

“Gone,” says Wentworth, following Tyler’s gaze. “Took off a few year back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” says Doggett. He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “Can I ask why she left?”

“You’ll have to ask her, won’t you?”

Something about this man disquiets Tyler. What is it? Surely not just the clutter and mess?

“Tell us about Gerald Cartwright,” says Doggett.

“What do you want to know?”

“What was he like? Did you get on?”

“Didn’t really know him.” The dog whimpers as Wentworth catches its fur with a blackened nail.

“But you worked for him? At the Old Vicarage. Let’s see.” Doggett consults his notebook. “Monthly payments to a Joe Wentworth.” He looks up. “That’s you?” Doggett looks back down at his notes again, goes on without waiting for an answer. “Going back six years before his disappearance. I assume it was for gardening?”

So their presence here is not just a whim based on Tyler’s hunch. Doggett was planning to speak to the man all along.

Wentworth grunts what might be an acknowledgment. “Didn’t know him, though.”

“I assume he consulted you on what he wanted. Daffodils here, pansies there. That sort of thing.” Doggett glances at Tyler and grins.

Wentworth clears his throat. “We talked about the garden.”

“So what was he like?”

Wentworth is silent.

“For example,” Doggett explains, “did he know exactly what he wanted, or was he the sort what didn’t know if he was Arthur or Martha, if you know what I mean?” Again the DI looks at Tyler.

Wentworth’s hand begins to shake, and he reaches for his tobacco tin. The ghost of Mrs. Wentworth looks down on them disapprovingly while her husband fidgets in his chair, disturbing the dog. It whines, gets up, turns full circle, and then settles in his lap once more. He begins rolling a cigarette on its head. “I suppose he knew what he wanted. He were used to getting his own way.”

“Is that right? What makes you say that?”

“Just an impression. What with his job and all.”

“Was he liked?”

Wentworth shrugs.

“In the village, let’s say. Was he popular?”