It was a good day for a drive into the country, a day on which Dalgliesh would usually take his time exploring byways and parking from time to time to enjoy gazing at the thrusting trunks of the great trees stripped for winter, the rising boughs and the dark intricacies of the high twigs patterned against a cloudless sky. Autumn had been prolonged but now he drove under the dazzling white ball of a winter sun, its frayed rim smudging a blue as clear as on a summer day. Its light would soon fade, but now, under its strong brightness, the fields, low hills and clusters of trees were sharp-edged and shadowless.

Once free of the traffic of London, they made good time, and two and a half hours later they were in East Dorset. Driving into a lay-by, they stopped briefly to eat their picnic lunch, and Dalgliesh consulted his map. Fifteen minutes later they came to a crossroads directing them to Stoke Cheverell, and about a mile past the village a signpost pointing to Cheverell Manor. They drew up in front of two wrought-iron gates and saw beyond them an avenue of beech trees. Inside the gates an elderly man wrapped in a long overcoat was sitting in what looked like a kitchen chair reading a newspaper. He folded it carefully, taking his time, then advanced to open the high gates. Dalgliesh wondered whether to get out to help him, but the gates swung open easily enough, and he drove through, Kate and Benton following. The old man closed the gates behind them, then came up to the car.

He said, “Miss Cressett don’t like cars littering the drive. You’ll ’ave to go round the back of the east wing.”

Dalgliesh said, “We’ll do that, but it can wait.”