“I’m not surprised. Been expecting it for years. Went with the job, didn’t it? The types he mixed with! He was a detective, like you, except that my husband didn’t sit behind a desk all day putting the frighteners on innocent ladies. Like I told your man Thoday, he often wandered off. I did sometimes think he might never be coming home again except in a box.”

“When were you married?”

“Seven years ago. Look, are they going to let his body come home? I ought to get back and make some arrangements. He’s got no family, but he’s got businesses and a staff to think about. They’ll have to be told.” Pale with alarm, she shot to her feet, smoothed down her linen skirt and tugged up her gloves.

“Sit down, Mrs. Hardy. This is a serious business. Murder has been done, possibly several murders, and you’re going to help me clear them up. The faster you tell me everything you know that’s relevant, the better it will be for you. As it stands at the moment, you were here with him, accompanying him on one of his ventures. A partner in crime is what a jury is going to think. Who could have known that the would-be killer was destined to become the has-been killed? You would, Mrs. Hardy. The accessory before and after, possibly during the event. And all the damp lace hankies in the world won’t deceive a Cambridge judge and jury, smart fellows that they are. Besides, when they enter, er . . . Philip—your office manager?—into the equation, who can predict how stony their attitude will be? This is a moral, Nonconformist part of the world, Edith. In this county, we have no Woodleigh Spas, no Brighton. They would not be understood or tolerated.”

She was a smart woman. She made her calculations and caved in, but MacFarlane remained vigilant.

“Abel was a soldier for most of his life. He retired after the war in South Africa—invalided out, wounded, he told me, with a bit of money saved and a pension of sorts. He put his money into one scheme after another, but they didn’t work out. In 1918 or thereabouts, when it was clear we were winning the war against the Germans and the men would be coming back home any minute, he had an idea—another idea! For a business. Starting out in a small way. Small indeed! Just Abel and his secretary. That was me! He was getting on a bit—forty-three?—and I was much younger, twenty-five. We started the agency from his mother’s front parlour. He had just enough savings to buy a typewriter and telephone and place an advertisement on the front page of the Times.”

“What did the advert say?” MacFarlane asked.