Now that the bespectacled man had gone on his way, there was not a sound to be heard apart from the occasional bird and my own breathing. Beyond the houses I saw empty fields and hills in the distance that, combined with the silence, made me feel immediately lonely. Cities, of course, can also make a person feel alone. In London, you look at those who pass you by and you have no idea what is going on in their minds. Each one looks utterly closed to you and mysterious. In villages the same rule applies, except that you suspect it is the same thing going on in every mind.

The owner of the King’s Head turned out to be a Mr. Victor Meakin, who looked to be between fifty and sixty and had thin gray hair through which the tops of his ears poked pinkly on both sides. He too seemed eager to discuss London. “Were you born there, if you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Catchpool? How many people live there now? What’s the size of the population? Is it very dirty there? My aunt went there once—said it was very dirty. Still, I’ve always thought I’d like to go one day. I never said so to my aunt, though—I’d have had an argument from her, God rest her soul. Does everybody in London have a car of their own?”

I was relieved that his stream of chatter allowed me no time to answer. My luck ran out when he got to the question that really interested him: “What brings you to Great Holling, Mr. Catchpool? I can’t think what business you might have here.”

At that point he stopped, and I had no choice but to answer. “I’m a policeman,” I told him. “From Scotland Yard.”

“Policeman?” He maintained a determined smile, but he looked at me now with very different eyes: hard, probing and disdainful—as if he was speculating about me and drawing conclusions that were to my disadvantage. “A policeman,” he said, more to himself than me. “Now, why would a policeman be here? An important policeman from London, too.” Since he seemed not to be asking me directly, I neglected to reply.

As he carried my cases up the winding wooden stairs, he stopped three times and turned to peer at me for no discernible reason.

The room he had allocated to me was agreeably sparse and chilly—a welcome change from Blanche Unsworth’s frilly, fringed extravagance. Here, thankfully, no hot water bottle with a knitted cover had been laid out for my use. I can’t bear the things; even the sight of them irks me. The warmest thing in any bed should always be a person, in my opinion.