‘Came back from the dead,’ said Miss Benson with a little giggle. ‘Long before my time, of course, and I must admit I never heard the full story; they’re cagey about it, naturally. And I don’t suppose she was really dead – in a clinical sense, I mean – but as good as. Aunt Edith says she still is and that old Phoebe Rigby didn’t do a good job on her.’

‘Mrs Rigby? What had she to do with it?’

‘When Isabel Thorby was – shall we say – moribund, Mrs Thorby, who was alive then and a bit of a crank, insisted on calling in Phoebe Rigby, who brewed some nettle tea or something horrid and got her breathing again.’

‘What a fascinating story. And rather . . . rather uncanny, don’t you think? There is something far away about Miss Thorby. At least, I thought so the day I went there to lunch.’

‘She gives me the creeps. But then so does he, in a way.’

‘Canon Thorby?’

‘Who else?’

‘In what way? Why?’

‘I dunno. There’s no reason for these things. Look how some people are about spiders. All I know is I don’t even like him coming into my classroom. He offered me the headship, you know, when Ma Westleton resigned; and I thought. He’ll be in and out with his amo, amas, amat, and his quadratic equations. So I said firmly that I’d been trained for Juniors and preferred to stick with them.’

‘That was fortunate for me.’

‘I’ll tell you another thing, too. So silly I never told anyone. Three or four times a year I just have to put in an appearance at church – Christmas, Easter, and so on. And every time, to take . . . from him . . . It makes me gag, literally. I’ve done my best to get over it, but I can’t.’

Be careful, Miss Mayfield admonished herself. This, too – this slightly intoxicated confidential talk – may be a trap.

‘What a pity. He’s so kind and generous.’