She laid her hand on the old woman’s wrist. And at the touch the suppressed hatred and jealousy of many years boiled up and overflowed. Only a few days back, this cold hearted bitch had taken Ethel, and never bothered to let her know, let her hunt all through the night and then, in the morning, go and make a fool of herself in front of the schoolteacher. That in itself was unforgivable; and now she was leaving Ethel to burn.

Mrs Rigby gave Miss Thorby a hearty push. Miss Thorby thought of only one thing: if Phoebe was found in the locked church, it would infinitely complicate the explanations. She reached out and took a firmer hold, trying to get the old woman by the shoulders and march her out ahead of her. Mrs Rigby resisted, struck at her, and in a second the church, which had witnessed so many curious scenes, witnessed one more – two elderly women engaged in an all-in wrestling match.

There was no doubt of the issue. Miss Thorby was younger, much taller and slightly heavier, but Mrs Rigby had led an active life, scrubbing her floor, polishing her furniture, washing, digging in the garden. She had the concealed, sinewy strength of a donkey. And there was hatred in her, whereas Miss Thorby was activated only by expediency. In the second before Canon Thorby switched on the light, Mrs Rigby gave one great heave and flung Miss Thorby away from her. She reeled backwards and, falling, struck her head against the font.

The light went on. Canon Thorby said, ‘Isabel!’ and Granny Rigby answered him.

‘Thass Ethel. She’s in there, with the schoolteacher, and the loft is afire. Ethel, you gotta come out.’

He might not have heard her. He went straight to the foot of the font where Isabel lay. He lifted her, and the limp lolling of her head told him all he needed to know.

He felt no sorrow at all. No one can suffer the same amputation twice. His grief for a dead sister was thirty-seven years old, and the grass was green over it. Relief, yes! This was the end. No. Not quite the end. He must, for the last time, make sure that her good name was not involved. A fire in the church tower – a stumble in the dark; yes, it would all fall into place, it could all be explained, if only . . .

He went to the tower door and without ceremony shoved Granny Rigby aside.

‘You must come out immediately,’ he called in the confident voice of one whose authority has never been seriously challenged. ‘Miss Mayfield, I don’t know what has been going on here, but I am here now. You are safe to come out.’ There was a perceptible pause, and then he added, ‘Do you want to be responsible for that child’s death?’