‘Bill?’ said Tiny. ‘But he couldn’t! Old Bill’s as strong as a horse! He – ouch! Sorry! Damn this knee! He – Bill – couldn’t – Oh, Lord, how it hurts! Oh, hell!’

CHAPTER 5

Parson’s Farewell

‘Wyd was his parish, and houses far asonder,

But yet he lafté not for reyne or thonder,

In sicknesse and in mes-chief to visite

The ferthest in his parisshe, smal and great.’

Geoffrey Chaucer

Jonathan, who, by inclination, was but an intermittent churchgoer, had become very friendly with the vicar. The vicar was a bachelor and enjoyed a visit to the manor house for chess, sherry and a companionable pipe of tobacco, and Jonathan, elevated by his purchase of the manor house to the position of local squire, had been gently bullied by Deborah into setting an example to the parish by regularly attending Sunday Matins unless there was any good reason why he should not.

There was nothing surprising, therefore, in the fact that the vicar should pay a call on the morning following the inquest on Bill Fullalove. He had come to the manor on his usual visit to have a comfortable chat. At least, so Jonathan supposed, but after some preliminary gossip the vicar came to the object of his call.

‘It’s like this, Bradley,’ he said. ‘I’ve received an anonymous letter.’

‘Good Lord! Not you?’ said Jonathan. ‘What on earth have you been up to, padre?’

The vicar shook his head.

‘It’s really nothing to do with me,’ he said. ‘It accuses one of my parishioners. As you will see when I show it you, it does not give the woman’s name, but you will see of what it accuses her, and you will see that it names the child – only the child is a grown man now – young Emming, our choirmaster.’

‘How do you know it’s one of your parishioners, then, padre?’ Jonathan enquired, as he took the letter which the vicar handed him, and added, ‘I had one, too, by the way. I think we ought to hunt out this anonymous scribe and hand her over to the police.’

‘You say “her”, as though you knew who it was.’

‘Not as though I knew who it was, no. But I thought that the majority of anonymous letter-writers were women.’

‘So they may be,’ the vicar agreed. ‘You think, then, that this letter consists of lies?’

‘No,’ said Jonathan thoughtfully. ‘There’s probably something in it. I say “something”. I doubt whether that letter contains a grain of real truth, any more than mine did, but whoever wrote it probably has something to go on.’

‘I don’t understand you.’