‘No,’ she says, stronger this time, defiantly so, and it causes him to lift his head. ‘You would never hurt me, Jack … I know that.’

He nods. His eyes shimmer. She cannot tell if it is rising emotion or simply the catch of the fading light.

‘Then all I ask, is that you hold onto that knowledge. And I beg you this: whatever happens … never let it go.’

And before she can say anything more, he heads out into the kitchen, leaving her alone in the pantry, wreathed in shadows.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The navy Austin Twelve pulls into the yard just as Jack is leading a tacked-up Bobby over to the implement shed, where Gwen is busy replacing a blade on the scuffle in preparation for weeding carrots. The wrench stills in her hand as she hears the drone of the car engine and Kip’s frantic barking. As the vehicle jogs her memory, her stomach sinks. She straightens up as Jack reaches the shed. The horse snorts, its tail swishing around its hindquarters. Jack’s expression is guarded.

Kip prances around the car growling and threatening until Jack calls him to heel. Only then do the car doors clunk open. Detective Constable Davies emerges first, warily, as if he has been sent out to assess the danger. Satisfied all is safe, the Inspector climbs out next, raising his hat in greeting. Gwen is surprised to see a uniformed constable emerge from the rear. He pauses to put on his helmet, its strap cutting into the loose flesh behind his chin. The presence of the three men puts her ill-at-ease. She drifts closer to Jack.

‘Mr and Mrs Ellison, good morning to you.’ The Inspector hangs back, giving Gwen the impression he is uncomfortable around the animals. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve been continuing our enquiries into the murder of Mr Allingham.’

‘Yes.’ Her mouth is dry. Muriel has proven tireless in conveying gossip from the village: the police are exhausting resources to solve the crime; Lord Allingham is ailing – he wants to see his son’s killer swing before he dies.

‘Mr Ellison … I was hoping you wouldn’t mind having a bit of a chat with us down at the station.’ His manner is amiable enough, but Gwen detects a wolfishness to his smile.

‘Can’t you question me here?’ Jack asks, his voice even. ‘As you can see, we’ve work to be getting on with.’

‘I’d rather you came down to the station.’

‘Are you arresting me?’

The Inspector chuckles disarmingly. ‘Not unless you want me to.’

There is a frisson in the air. Gwen feels like she has a fist lodged in her chest. Her fingers are suddenly too weak to hold the wrench.

‘All right,’ Jack says at last.

‘Why? Why do you want to speak to Jack?’ Gwen blurts out, unable to stop herself. ‘Gordon’s death has nothing to do with him.’