The three of them pulled their murder bags out of the cars. Even the urgency of the moment, the knowledge that a group of people was awaiting him in various stages of anxiety or apprehension, didn’t deter Dalgliesh from pausing for a few seconds to look at the house. He knew that it was regarded as one of the loveliest Tudor manor houses in England, and now it was before him in its perfection of form, its confident reconciliation of grace and strength: a house built for certainties, for birth, death and rites of passage, by men who knew what they believed and what they were doing. A house grounded in history, enduring. There was no grass or garden and no statuary in front of the Manor. It presented itself unadorned, its dignity needing no embellishment. He was seeing it at its best. The white morning glare of wintry sunlight had softened, burnishing the trunks of the beech trees and bathing the stones of the manor in a silvery glow, so that for a moment in the stillness it seemed to quiver and become as insubstantial as a vision. The daylight would soon fade; it was the month of the winter solstice. Dusk would soon fall, and night would follow quickly. He and the team would be investigating a deed of darkness in the blackness of midwinter. For someone who loved the light, this imposed a disadvantage which was as much psychological as practical.

As he and the team moved forward, the door of the great porch opened and a man came out to them. He seemed for a moment uncertain whether to salute, then held out his hand and said, “Chief Inspector Keith Whetstone. You’ve made good time, sir. The Chief said you’d be wanting SOCOs. We’ve only got a couple available at present, but they should be here within forty minutes. The photographer’s on his way.”

There could, thought Dalgliesh, be no doubt that Whetstone was a policeman, either that or a soldier. He was heavily built but held himself upright. He had a plain but agreeable face, ruddy-cheeked, his eyes steady and watchful under hair the colour of old straw, cut en brosse and neatly shaped round overlarge ears. He was dressed in country tweeds and wearing a greatcoat.

The introductions made, he said, “Have you any knowledge why the Met are taking the case, sir?”

“None, I’m afraid. I take it you were surprised when the AC phoned.”

“I know the Chief Constable thought it a bit odd, but we’re not looking for work. You’ll have heard about those arrests on the coast. We’ve got the Customs and Excise boys crawling all over us. The Yard said you could do with a DC. I’m leaving Malcolm Warren. He’s a bit on the quiet side but bright enough, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut.”