Nor would there. If the facts were accurate the only time when Jeremy was alone was the hour and a half between the end of his lesson and his arrival at the pub, and that wouldn’t have given him time even to get to Stoke Cheverell.

Kate said, “We’d like now to have a look at Mr. Boyton’s room. I suppose it hasn’t been locked since his death?”

Coxon said, “It couldn’t be, there isn’t a lock. Anyway, it never occurred to me that it needed to be locked. If you expected that, surely you’d have phoned me. As I keep saying, I haven’t been told anything until your arrival today.”

Kate said, “I don’t expect it’s important. I take it no one’s been in the room since his death?”

“No one. Not even me. The place depressed me when he was alive. I can’t face it now.”

The room was down the landing at the back. It was large and well proportioned, with two windows looking out over the lawn with its central flowerbed and, beyond it, the canal.

Without entering the room, Coxon said, “I’m sorry it’s in such a mess. Robin only moved in two weeks ago and everything he owns has been dumped here except the stuff he gave away to Oxfam or sold at the pub, and I don’t suppose there were many takers.”

The room was certainly uninviting. There was a single divan to the left of the door piled high with unwashed clothes. The doors of a mahogany wardrobe stood open, revealing shirts, jackets and trousers crammed on metal hangers. There were half a dozen large square boxes stamped with the name of a removal firm and three bulging black plastic bags on top. In the corner to the right of the door were piles of books and a cardboard carton filled with magazines. Between the two windows, a pedestal desk with drawers and a cupboard on each side held a laptop and an adjustable reading lamp. The room smelled unpleasantly of unwashed clothes.