Eventually I drove back to Truro in a nasty squall of rain to find Belinda sitting in the hotel parlor having tea with a distinguished-looking white-haired man who looked so much like a solicitor that I didn’t have to wonder who he was. Belinda looked up and saw me.

“Oh, Georgie, you’re back,” she said. “This is Mr. Haversham, my solicitor.”

The man rose to his feet and extended a hand. “Delighted to meet you, my lady. I hear you have been instrumental in securing Miss Warburton-Stoke’s release. A nasty business, and a perplexing one. Have they actually made an arrest yet?”

“Not that we know of,” I said.

“In any case I plan to stay in the area, just in case the police wish to interview my client again,” he said. “Not a bad little hotel. Quite comfortable.”

“I should leave you to talk,” I said, now not sure what I should be doing. Should I also get a room here for the night? I had told Darcy this was where he could find me. So I asked at reception and was given a minute single room, just enough space to get in and out of a narrow bed. At least it was better than White Sails. I was told I was too late for Sunday lunch when I presented myself at the restaurant but they did manage to produce some grilled cheese on toast, which was better than nothing.

I joined Belinda and her solicitor for dinner, which was a most satisfying roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Still no sign of her father, but that was to be expected if he had to make his way from the Scottish Highlands.

THE NEXT DAY we had a leisurely breakfast and the solicitor announced he was going to visit the police headquarters to ask that they permit Belinda to return to London. We waited in the hotel drawing room, idly reading local newspapers with fascinating snippets about the disappearance of a pair of combinations from a washing line and the Women’s Institute making a record sale of their chutney. We had lunch and just after, the solicitor came back to say the police would like her to remain in the area a little longer. He was going to stay another night and planned on visiting an old friend who lived nearby.

Belinda suggested we go and see the builder again and persuade him to come out to White Sails. This time I let her drive so we sped through the lanes considerably faster, until we came upon a flock of sheep, just released from a field. Belinda managed to stop inches from the nearest sheep’s backside. There was much baaing and cursing from the shepherd who waved his crook at her.

“Silly man,” she grumbled. “Sheep have no right to be on a public highway.”

“It’s hardly a highway.”