‘Can’t say I did … but then I was inside working at the time. I didn’t hear a thing.’

The hairs on the back of Gwen’s neck lift. She thinks back to the blank window of the tack room, with no hint of light within.

‘Very well …’ The Inspector glances at his constable, who concludes his note-taking with an almost imperceptible nod. ‘Well, thank you, folks. If you do remember anything, feel free to contact me at Helvedon Police Station.’

‘Should we be worried?’ Gwen looks over to Tom.

He puffs out his cheeks. ‘I don’t think members of the public need to be concerned at this point, Mrs Ellison. Most murderers are known to the victim … but there’s no harm in keeping an eye out for each other for a few days, maybe locking your doors at night. There’s certainly no need to panic.’

‘Thank you, that’s … that’s most reassuring.’

‘They your workmen up there, Mr Marsh?’ He nods towards the threshing box, where the team are starting to prepare for the afternoon shift.

‘No, contractors … they work the local farms this time of year.’

‘Right … right … you don’t mind if I have a word …’

‘No, no, you help yourself.’

They stand in awkward silence waiting for the police to finish up.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ the Inspector promises when he finally returns to the car, the flaps of his mackintosh lifting on the breeze. Gwen hopes it is only her imagination that his narrow gaze lingers on Jack as he yanks open his car door.

The car whines as it reverses from the yard, gingerly backing around the gatepost into the lane before motoring out of sight.

‘I’d best get Tom back home,’ Muriel says at last, looking older than she had just a short time before.

‘I’ll be back to do the milking,’ Gwen assures her, calling Tom to come. He races over, deliberately crashing into Jack’s legs. Jack mock staggers, before hoisting him into his arms and tipping him upside down over his shoulder as he carries him to Muriel’s bicycle. Tom squeals with delight.

Gwen’s heart pangs as she watches their tomfoolery. She wants to laugh, but instead tears sting her eyes.

‘I can’t believe Gordon Allingham is dead,’ she murmurs. ‘Who would do that?’

Muriel swallows hard. She too is watching Jack. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We’d best get back to the threshing,’ Ted says. ‘And I wouldn’t cry any tears over Gordon Allingham.’ He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket. ‘If anyone had it coming to them … it was him.’

Chapter Fifty-Six

A rare engagement means Muriel must set off as soon as Gwen finishes the milking. Leaving Tom listening to the wireless, Gwen accompanies her to her bicycle, propped against the side wall of the house.

‘Muriel …’

‘Yes, love?’