The car came to a halt outside the court buildings and we followed the inspector inside. We were passed from one department to the next until we found where archives of court cases were stored. And then we waited, sitting on a hard wooden bench in a drafty foyer. At last a young man came back with a sheet of paper. “This is the one you wanted,” he said. “Robert Francis Robbins. Convicted November 22, 1928.”

We read it eagerly. “Who is Agnes Brewer?” Granddad asked.

“The farmer’s wife. Already dead.”

“That just leaves Stewart McGill and—oh.” I stopped, mouth open.

“Peter Barclay,” Granddad said. “Isn’t he the quiet little chap who plays the organ?”

“That’s him.” I looked at the inspector. “Do you have any way of telephoning the police station in Tiddleton and having some kind of guard put on Mr. Barclay?”

“I’ll do it from the station here,” the inspector said. “And we need to find out where this Mr. McGill lives. We have an address for him and it’s in Exeter.”

We drove with a growing feeling of dread to Mr. McGill’s address. It was in a rather shabby backstreet of terraced houses right on the pavement with no front gardens. We knocked on the front door and a young woman opened it. She looked unkempt, with a baby on her hip.

“Mr. McGill?” the inspector asked.

She stared at him defiantly. “No. You’ve got the wrong number. The name’s Perkins.”

“How long have you lived here, Mrs. Perkins?”

“Just over a year. What’s it to you?”

“I’m a police officer,” Inspector Newcombe said coldly and noted the reaction in her eyes. “You don’t happen to know where to find the people who lived here before you, do you?”

“No idea.” The baby started to wail. “Look, this isn’t a good time. He wants his bottle and the bigger ones want their dinner.”

“We’re looking for a Mr. McGill who used to live here,” the inspector said. “It’s vitally important we contact him. A matter of life and death.”

She shrugged, still not interested. “You can ask the old bat at number 14,” she said. “She’s always snooping out through her window, minding other people’s business. She might know.”

We went across the street. I saw a lace curtain twitch before the inspector knocked on the door. Soon after, the door was opened an inch or two and a sharp-nosed face looked out.

The inspector repeated his question and the door was opened wider to reveal an old woman in a flowery pinny and carpet slippers.

“You’re not going to find him, are you?” the old woman said triumphantly. “He’s gone. Hopped it.”

“Gone where?”

“Out to his daughter in Australia. His wife died and he packed up and went. Three or four years ago now.”