He fished out a photograph showing the dead man posing on a beach with a pretty woman. ‘I want the police photographer to make copies of this and send it to all the newspapers. Where is he, anyway?’

‘Here, sir,’ panted the photographer, running up. Kerridge heaved the body back over. ‘Take a photograph of this, and take this photograph I found in the man’s wallet and see if you can photograph it and send it round to the newspapers. When we know who he is, we’ll know why.’

Before reaching Apton Magna, they had driven through some very pretty villages, but Apton Magna seemed a dreary, poverty-stricken place. It consisted of a long line of agricultural labourers’ cottages, built like miners’ cottages, directly onto the road and without front gardens. At one end of the row was a village shop and a pub, which was just really someone’s house with a green branch outside to show it sold ale. At the other end was the church with its square Norman tower.

The rectory was, however, a large handsome Georgian building with a porticoed entrance.

Dr Tremaine came out to meet them. He was as thin as his wife was fat, wearing black clericals and buckled shoes. He had a craggy lantern-jawed face and small hazel eyes which regarded them with alarm.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded as Harry stepped down from the car.

‘Lady Rose was fond of your daughter and wondered whether on calmer reflection Miss Tremaine had said anything to indicate there was anyone she feared.’

‘There was no one. Now, go away.’

‘Dr Tremaine, I fail to understand your attitude. You must surely want to know who killed your daughter.’

‘That is a job for the police and not for some dilettante aristocrat like you.’

‘An attempt has been made twice on the life of my fiancée, Lady Rose,’ said Harry sternly, ‘and all because some madman thinks she may have some knowledge of the murderer, which, believe me, she most certainly has not.’

‘You must respect our grief,’ said Dr Tremaine. ‘You must go away before my wife sees you. She is still gravely upset and her nerves are delicate.’

At that moment, Mrs Tremaine lumbered out of the house. With a cap on her mousy hair and her round figure, she looked rather like the late Queen. ‘Why, Lady Rose!’ she exclaimed. ‘How kind of you to call.’

‘They’re just leaving,’ snarled her husband.

‘Oh, you cannot go without taking some refreshment. Don’t be such a bear, dear. Do come in, Lady Rose.’

Under the rector’s glaring eyes, Rose entered the house. Daisy and Becket would have followed, but Mrs Tremaine looked at them in horror. ‘Your servants may remain in the car.’

She led the way to a drawing-room. It had noble proportions which were lost in over-furnishing. The light was dim because of three sets of curtains on the long windows – net, linen and then brocade.

Mrs Tremaine pulled the bell-rope and, when the maid answered the summons, asked for tea to be brought in. ‘My poor Dolly was so honoured by your friendship, Lady Rose,’ she said. ‘She was meant for great things and struck down in her prime.’