‘Yes … yes, I suppose you’re right.’

‘So, is that an end to it then?’ Jack asks.

‘Yes, Mr Ellison, I believe so. I would appreciate it if you kept tonight’s events to yourselves for now. I’d rather the Allinghams heard the details from me. I’ll speak to them first thing.’

‘We won’t say a word,’ Jack assures him.

‘Very well. I suggest you return home and get some sleep.’

Gwen calls out to him before he reaches his car.

‘Despite all this Ted Marsh was a good man, inspector. One of nature’s kind souls. Please don’t forget that.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind, Mrs Ellison. You have my word on that.’

He turns to go, but Gwen calls to him again. Pulling away from Jack she hurries forward.

‘Who was the witness?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The witness, the one who reported seeing someone with a shotgun. Who was it?’

The Inspector looks away, puffing out his cheeks as he considers whether to divulge the information. Having reflected, he clearly sees no harm in it.

‘Lady Helen, as it happens.’

‘Lady Helen …’ Gwen’s pulse grows sluggish.

‘It seems she was returning from running an errand – I didn’t quite catch it but I’m sure she said it was something to do with grouse. I thought we were in the wrong part of the country for all that.’ He snorts and rolls his eyes. ‘How the other half live, eh? Goodnight, Mrs Ellison. Try and get some rest.’

Numbed, Gwen watches him drive from the yard. The car’s engine grows faint. The unnerving screech of a barn owl carries on the breeze. Jack’s steps crunch towards her.

‘Let’s go home, lass,’ he says.

Taking his hand, she lets him lead the way.

Chapter Sixty

Ted is laid to rest without great pomp or ceremony – just a quiet gathering of close friends and neighbours too shocked to speak much, and when they do it is in muted tones, in whispers that are not meant to carry. And yet, the nature of his demise and the reasons for it soon spread around the village, despite Gwen and Jack’s best efforts. Gossip in a small place is like oil in water – it always rises to the surface; it is impossible to suppress.

In sharp contrast, Gordon Allingham is laid to rest in splendour, interred in his family vault, along with their hopes and dreams of progeniture. His funeral cortege is formed of a glass-sided hearse pulled by four plumed black stallions, with two sombre limousines crawling respectfully behind.

Most of the village turn out, lining the route from the Hall to the church out of curiosity if not respect. Gwen, though, does not. She and Jack treat it as a normal day of labour, though they happen to be in the lane brushing the Mere Field hedge when the cortege passes by.