“She was stabbed,” he said, almost to himself. “And only once. The murderer was either very confident or he knew what he was doing.” He stood up and turned away to face the group who watched him.

“Who is it?” he asked.

The superintendent, young, able, lazy, who had recently returned from an exchange visit to Colorado, answered indirectly.

“Steve,” he said. “We might have a difficult one here.”

“Why? Who is it?”

“Her name’s Alice Parry. Does that mean anything to you?”

Ramsay shook his head.

“She’s a magistrate and a well-known lady. Her nephew’s James Laidlaw, editor of the Otterbridge Express.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I know James Laidlaw. Does that matter?”

“Steve! Does it matter? Remember Heppleburn. We need the press on our side.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

This is all I need, he thought. The press will be here, watching every move we make.

“Has the murder weapon been found?” he asked.

“No, and we’ve no information yet on what we’re looking for.”

Then the superintendent went away, telling Ramsay to be careful, that he would deal with all press enquiries, and Ramsay was left alone with the smell of ivy and wet leaves.

By then it was eleven o’clock and the congregation for parish communion were coming out of the church. The vicar, his cassock billowing about him in the breeze, stood at the door to greet his parishioners. There had been a christening and the mother stood proudly, holding the baby in its long robe while admiring friends took photographs. Then there was the giving of the amice—the coal, bread, salt, and money wrapped up in a napkin that in Northumberland churches is given to the first child the baby meets—and more photographs. Ramsay wished they would all go, but some of the congregation must have heard about the murder because they came up to the wrought-iron gate and stared at the policeman searching the garden.

He found his sergeant, Gordon Hunter, in the kitchen talking to Olive Kerr.

“Sorry to call you out,” Hunter said cheerfully. “How are you settling in?”

Ramsay said nothing. He disapproved of Hunter’s easy familiarity. Perhaps it had been a mistake after all to invite him into his home. A murder enquiry needed tact and gravity. Yet he noticed that even the straight-backed, straitlaced woman was responding to the sergeant’s attention. Hunter would be making her feel special, playing the part of the attractive, rather wayward son who needed looking after. Soon she would be making him tea and telling him to wrap up warm before he went out because the wind was cold. Hunter whispered something to Olive, which made her smile, then stood up.

“We need screens,” Ramsay said. “ There are already people in the churchyard staring. They can’t see the body from there, but it’ll not be long before we have the press in the garden.”