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surprised.
    ‘And did you remove any damp towels from Mr Nightingale’s bedroom this morning?’
    ‘No, sir, definitely not. I wasn’t looking for work this morning and that’s a fact.’ Mrs Cantrip gave a virtuous lift of her chin. ‘Besides, it’s not the day for that,’ she said. ‘I change the sheets Monday mornings, and the towels Mondays and Thursdays. Always have done, year in and year out since I’ve been here.’
    ‘Suppose someone else were to have …?’ Wexford began carefully.
    ‘They couldn’t have,’ said Mrs Cantrip sharply. ‘The soiled linen’s kept in a bin in the back kitchen and no one’s been near it today. I can vouch for that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got my lunch to serve. I’m sure I don’t know if Mr Nightingale’s feeling up to a snack but there’s the tray to go over to Mr Villiers as usual … Oh, my dear God! Mr Villiers! I’d forgot all about Mr Villiers.’
    Wexford stared at her. ‘D’you mean to say Mr Nightingale’s brother-in-law lives in this house?’
    ‘Not to say “lives”, sir,’ said Mrs Cantrip, still wide-eyed, a red hand frozen to her cheek. ‘He comes up every day to do his writing in the Old House. And, oh, sir, I don’t reckon no one’s told him!’
    ‘Mr Villiers must have seen all our comings and goings.’
    ‘He wouldn’t, sir. You can’t see a thing from the Old House on account of all them trees, no more than you can see
it
from the outside. I’ll have to go and tell him. All I can say is, thank God they wasn’t close. He won’t take it hard, there’s one blessing.’
    She trotted off a half-run. Wexford watched her disappear under an arch in the hedge, an arch overhung with the leaves of lime trees turning gold.Above these all that showed of the Old House was a shallow roof against the white-spotted blue sky.
    He allowed her five minutes and then he followed the path she had taken. It led him into a little paved court in the centre of which was a small square pond. Carp swam in the dark clear water under the flat shining rafts of lily leaves.
    The court was heavily shaded by the trees which surrounded it. Their roots had sapped strength from the narrow borders, for nothing grew in them but a few attenuated and flowerless plants stretched desperately in the hope of reaching the sun. Mrs Cantrip must have entered the ancient house—to Wexford it appeared at least four hundred years old—by a black oak door which stood ajar. By the step stood a boot-scraper, a cock with spread wings made of black metal. Looking up past creeper-grown lattice windows, Wexford noticed its fellow, a crowing chanticleer on the weather vane.
    As he entered the Old House, he became aware that the wind had dropped.

4
    T he place in which Wexford found himself was evidently used as a storeroom. Birch logs were stacked against the walls in pyramids; racks above them awaited the Manor harvest of apples and pears. It was all very clean and orderly.
    Since there was no other room down here and no sign of Denys Villiers’ occupation, Wexford ascended the stairs. They were of black oak let into a kind of steeply sloping tunnel in the thick wall. From behind the single door at the top he heard low voices. He knocked. Mrs Cantrip opened the door a crack and whispered:
    ‘I’ve broke the news. Will you be wanting me any more?’
    ‘No, thank you, Mrs Cantrip.’
    She came out, her face very red. A shaft of sunlight stabbed the shadows of the lower room as she let herself out. Wexford hesitated and then he went into Villiers’ writing room.
    The classics master remained sitting at his desk but he turned a grave cold face towards Wexford and said, ‘Good morning, Chief Inspector. What can I do for you?’
    ‘This is a bad business, Mr Villiers. I won’t keep you long. Just a few questions, if you please.’
    ‘Certainly. Won’t you sit down?’
    A large, somewhat chilly room, darkly panelled. The windows were small and obscured by clustering