“Let me see . . . now if he got here about five to eight . . . it would have taken him about quarter of an hour from the school. Say ten minutes to do what he had to do, give five to get there and get out again, and I’d give about ten to fifteen back to the Woolpack. So if he left the Woolpack before . . . say, about ten past seven, he’s got no alibi and he could just have done it.”

“Precisely. It all depends on what happened at the Woolpack. So eat, don’t talk, and we can buzz over there as soon as possible and suss them out.”

Half an hour later, they were in the bar at the Woolpack. In contrast with the suburban charm of the Stonemason’s, the Woolpack was spartan and cheap. The plastic-covered benches and the chipped laminated table tops fitted well with the smell of stale beer and old tobacco smoke. A couple of farm laborers leaned against a corner of the bar. They fell silent when Cordelia and Lindsay entered and stared blankly at them.

Behind the bar was a bleached blonde in her twenties with too much eye makeup. “Really know how to make you feel welcome, don’t they,” Lindsay muttered to Cordelia as they approached the bar. This time Lindsay decided to drop the subtle approach and went straight to the point after she’d ordered her half pint of indifferent keg beer and a glass of white wine for Cordelia.

“Have one yourself,” she insisted to the barmaid. “I wonder if you can help me? I’m a private investigator and I’ve been hired to look into this murder down the road at Derbyshire House School. I’ve been making inquiries into the movements of everyone connected with the case, and I want you to tell me if this man was in here on Saturday night.” She took the photograph of Cartwright from her bag and handed it over.

“You’re not the first, love,” came the sullen reply. “Police’ve been here before you. But I may as well tell you what I told them. This bloke comes in here occasionally, and he was in on Saturday. We don’t open while seven of a Saturday teatime, and he came in on the dot—same as a couple of hikers. I served him first and he went through the side parlor with a pint. I don’t know how long he stopped; there’s a door in there leads to the toilets and you can get out the back door that way. All I know is he was gone half an hour later when I went in to clear off the glasses. Now, if that’s all, I’ll get on with my work.”

Without waiting for a reply, she disappeared through the door beside the bar. “A real charmer,” said Cordelia. “Now do I have to finish this disgusting drink or can we push off?”