‘In view of which,’ pursued the sergeant, ‘although against the grain in a local matter, we are applying to the Chief Constable to see what he thinks about asking for an exhumation order. It’s really our own surgeon’s wish, sir, him not liking the idea that he made a wrong diagnosis. He says he’s sure there was nothing overlooked at the post-mortem, and he’s got his professional pride.’

‘Well, that should settle matters, one way or another. By the way, now that Bill has gone, how does his will work out?’

‘That’s the curious part, sir. Got the lawyers tied up properly. There’s no question of the insurance people not paying up. The verdict was clear, and they can’t go again’ it and don’t intend to. The amount is five thousand pounds. Now, that’s not a big insurance, as such things go, but it might tempt some people. Well, the funny thing is that we don’t know who it might have tempted … that is, if the death wasn’t quite all it appeared to be. The will is made out in favour of—’ he took a notebook out and passed a formidable young thumb over its pages – ‘my dear wife Amabel Lucinda.’

‘No other clue to the lady’s identity?’

‘None at all, sir. And Mr Tiny swears he wasn’t married. It all adds up a bit odd, sir.’

‘So that, unless the lady comes forward and stakes her claim, Tiny, I suppose, gets the lot – the money Bill left and all the insurance, too.’

‘That’s the size of it, sir. Been very short with the lawyers, Mr Tiny has, and you can’t hardly blame him, really. Challenged them to produce a marriage certificate and said that whoever Mr Bill might have intended to make his wife, he was absolutely certain he’d never actually married.’

‘Unless, for some reason, he kept the marriage secret. Still, no doubt that if she exists the lady will come forward, marriage lines and all, as soon as she hears of the death.’

‘Yes, very likely, sir. Perhaps I should give the name of the beneficiary we’ve got in our mind, sir …’

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Dalby Whittier, sir.’

‘But, good Lord, she was just the housekeeper and not a young woman, at that!’

‘Hot stuff, sir, I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said the sergeant. ‘Little and good, you know. Good for what, says you? Perhaps good for nothing, says I! Thank you very much, sir. I really don’t mind if I do. Yes, sir, there it is. He might have married her secretly, as you say. It don’t take long, with a registrar and a special licence. Although why he should want it secret, an independent gentleman like him—!’

‘So you rather want to see Mrs Dalby Whittier, I take it?’