“I passed Stan Rail in the road, Vicar,” he says as I approach. “He told me what was up, and how he’s got a tenner off you.” He gives me a blue glare. “That man can be a right object. But never fear. I’ve been and fetched a few implements from the hall.”

We go to the back of the Land Rover and unload, in short order, a lump hammer, a bolster, spikes, another chisel, and a crowbar. “These belonged to Sir Michael. Lady B’s hung on to them for fifty years, give or take. Quality, you see. Now, our best bet is to chip out a big square, dig underneath, and lever ’em out in lumps. One or two may crack, but we’ll save the most part.”

“A splendid idea,” I tell him. “But we mustn’t harm the hounds. They’re for Lucy Horne, if she wants them.” I glance at the vehicle. “I see Ellen’s lent you her Land Rover . . .”

“Yup. Always does when she’s away. Or if I need it for a special journey. I fetched her back on Monday from the airport, but she says I can keep it till tomorrow. Lucky for you.”

Monday. That’s six days ago. She’s been home for nearly a week and not a word.

“Lucky for the tiles!” I say brightly. “I can’t thank you enough, William.”

—

By the time Stan Rail comes back we’ve liberated nigh on fifty tiles in several sizable chunks that fit into my car with the back seat folded down. What I will do with them, I don’t know. There are other things on my mind.

William gets ready to depart. I accompany him to the Land Rover. “So.” I clear my throat. “How’s—how’s Ellen? Did she enjoy her trip?”

“Mightily. She’s nut-brown and thin as a lath. And taking to her bed at three in the afternoon!” He tuts. “I hope she’s quite well.”

That makes me smile. “I’m sure it’s only jet lag.”

William harrumphs. “That girl has never been one for lying in bed.”

—

I get into the car with Tom, who has gratefully accepted his sausage sandwich from Stan. “That Elston,” he says as we pull away. “When it comes to a sausage sarnie, he’s the man.”

Six days she’s been back. Admittedly I haven’t got a telephone. Maybe that’s it. If I did have a phone, she’d have rung me. But she doesn’t want to toil up to the farmhouse. I might be out, after all.

“Dad?”

“Oh—yes . . . he’s renowned . . .”

I drive into Waltham and we go to the supermarket. I shop tersely. When Tom puts two jars of jam in the trolley I snap at him that I’m not made of money. He stalks off to the health food shop. The journey home is passed in silence.