‘It is pleasant to be back in the country again,’ sighed Rose. ‘When all this is over, I shall go back north to see Bert and Sally.’

‘And how will you do that?’ asked Daisy. ‘If your parents are at home, they are certainly not going to let you go all that way to see a mere village policeman.’

‘Perhaps the captain can arrange something,’ said Rose. ‘Oh, do look at that sweet cottage.’

‘All I see is the pump at the front for the water and no doubt the you-know-what will be out in the back garden. I can smell the cesspool from here.’

‘You have no romance in your soul,’ admonished Rose.

‘I have memories of poverty in me soul,’ said Daisy.

‘Don’t say “me”.’

They told the cabbie to wait for them at the entrance to the village. They had both decided to wear their plainest clothes.

A woman was sitting outside a cottage, holding a baby on her lap. ‘Excuse me,’ said Rose, ‘we were wondering if you could give us some information about the Tremaines.’

The woman got to her feet and, disappearing inside the cottage, slammed the door behind her.

They met with the same lack of success at other cottages.

‘Perhaps one of the more well-to-do residents would be more forthcoming,’ suggested Rose.

‘There don’t seen to be any,’ replied Daisy. ‘We’ve forgotten our village ways. We’re too direct. We need someone friendly. Ask them something like where we can get a cup of tea, enter into conversation about the weather and so on, and then slide in some remark about the murder.’

‘That sounds a very good idea,’ said Rose. ‘That is, if we can find anyone amiable.’

‘I remember there was a cottage up by the rector’s place. It looked in better shape than the others,’ said Daisy. ‘Why is the rector called “doctor”?’

‘Because he’s a doctor of divinity. Remember that Gilbert and Sullivan opera? “A doctor of divinity/ Who resides in this vicinity”.’

The cottage they approached was small and thatched and made of Cotswold stone, unlike the red brick cottages of the other villagers.

It had a front garden crowded with flowers. They opened the gate and walked up the path. Rose knocked on the door.

A woman answered it. She looked washed-out and faded, as if some grim laundress had boiled her, mangled her and hung her out in strong sunlight to dry without ironing her first. Her simple muslin gown was creased, and the dry flaky skin of her long face was lined with wrinkles. Her eyes were of such a pale grey that they looked almost white and she wore her sparse grey hair under a crumpled linen cap.

‘We are visiting the countryside and wondered whether there was anywhere in Apton Magna where we could get some refreshment,’ said Rose.

‘Oh, there’s nothing nearer than Moreton-in-Marsh. They do ever such a nice tea at the White Hart Royal. I remember being taken there by a gentleman friend when I was just a girl.’