‘We’re just canvassing neighbours – people in the vicinity – who might have heard or seen something to help our enquiries, Mr—?’

‘Ted Marsh, this is my farm.’

The Detective Constable scratches in his notebook as the Inspector elicits details from each of them in turn. He chuckles as Tom, never to be left out, chirps up his own name at the end. Gwen tells him to go and play. He skulks off reluctantly but is soon back climbing the tree.

‘Did you all know Mr Allingham?’

‘Not well,’ Ted ventures first. ‘Certainly not to speak to … though I go to the village events at the Hall, of course. I have contact with the farm manager mostly.’

The Inspector looks to Jack and Gwen.

‘Knew him by sight,’ Jack says.

The Inspector smiles when he catches ear of his accent. ‘A Geordie in the Home Counties?’

‘Aye, something like that.’

‘How long have you been down here?’

‘I was taken on as a farm labourer by Gwen’s father just before the war. I joined up in ‘thirty-nine, got back just a few weeks ago.’

‘Very good,’ the Inspector says. ‘So, Mrs Ellison, you’re the local?’

‘Yes, yes that’s right.’

‘And did you know Mr Allingham at all?’

Gwen offers a disingenuous shake of her head. ‘Not really. I used to ride with the Hunt, so I knew him a little from there.’ Heat crackles up her cheeks. ‘We’re not really from the same circles.’

She wonders suddenly what Helen Allingham has said to the police and whether, in the circumstances, she might expose Gwen for the liar she is – or whether she will choose to protect her husband’s memory and let his philandering secrets accompany him to his grave. The unwelcome thought crosses her mind that she might have had a hand in putting him there.

‘I see … and can I ask all of you – did you by any chance happen to notice anything out of the ordinary last night?’

‘What time do you think …’

‘We know Mr Allingham left around eight o’clock. Unfortunately, we don’t know where he was going or if he was intending to meet anyone, but it appears he was killed around that time.’

‘I heard a gunshot,’ Gwen blurts out. ‘A twelve-bore, I’d say.’ She hears Ted’s sharp intake of breath and, from the corner of her eye, she catches Jack’s rapid appraisal. ‘Last night … as I was shutting up the farm.’

‘What time would that be, Mrs Ellison?’

‘I think I went out just before eight. It wasn’t long after.’

‘And you’re sure it was a gunshot you heard? Specifically, a twelve-bore – that’s quite detailed …

‘I know what a shotgun sounds like, inspector. I thought it was poachers in the woods and it might well have been.’

‘Did you hear it, Mr Ellison?’ The Inspector shifts his focus to Jack.