‘Never mind,’ Alleyn said, ‘I dare say it’s only his over-developed social sense.’

‘Well, I know. All the same –’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘Rory,’ she said, ‘if you don’t awfully mind, don’t tell him I gave you the letter. He’d think me such a sweep.’

At that moment Alleyn liked her very much. ‘I won’t tell him,’ he said carefully, ‘unless I have to. And, for your part, I’ll be obliged if you don’t tell him, either.’

‘I’m not likely to am I? And, anyway, I don’t quite see why the promises about this letter should all be on my side.’

‘It may be important.’

‘All right, but I can’t think how. You’ve got it. Are you going to use it in some way?’

‘Not if it’s irrelevant.’

‘I suppose it’s no good asking you to give it back to me. No, I can see it’s not.’

‘It isn’t, really, Desirée,’ Alleyn said, using her name for the first time. ‘Not till I make quite sure it’s of no account. I’m sorry.’

‘What a common sort of job you’ve got. I can’t think how you do it.’ She gave one of her harsh barks of laughter.

He looked at her for a moment. ‘I expect that was a very clever thing to say,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid it makes no difference. Goodbye. Thank you again for my lunch.’

When he was in the car he said: ‘To Ribblethorpe. It’s about five miles, I think. I want to go to the parish church.’

It was a pleasant drive through burgeoning lanes. There were snowdrops in the hedgerows and a general air of freshness and simplicity. Desirée’s final observation stuck in his gullet.

Ribblethorpe was a tiny village. They drove past a row of cottages and a shop-post-office and came to a pleasant if not distinguished church with a big shabby parsonage beyond it.

Alleyn walked through the graveyard and very soon found a Victorian headstone to ‘Frances Ann Patricia, infant daughter of Alfred Molyneux Piers Period Esquire and Lady Frances Mary Julia, his wife. She is not dead but sleepeth’. Reflecting on the ambiguity of the quotation, Alleyn moved away and had not long to search before he found carved armorial bearings exactly similar to those in Mr Period’s study. These adorned the grave of Lord Percival Francis Pyke who died in 1701 and had conferred sundry and noble benefits upon this parish. The name recurred pretty regularly up and down the graveyard from Jacobean times onward. When he went into the church it was the same story. Armorial fish, brasses and tablets, all confirmed the eminence of innumerable Pykes.

Alleyn was in luck. The baptismal register was not locked away in the vestry but chained to a carved desk, hard by the font. In the chancel a lady wearing an apron and housemaid’s gloves was polishing brasses. Her hat, an elderly toque, had been for greater ease, lifted up on her head, giving her a faint air of recklessness. He approached her.