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interruption.
    ‘This will mean a lot of work for you,' he said  finally.
    Crowther nodded.
    'A bit. There's a beer in the cupboard behind you  if you fancy it.'
    'Thanks,' said Pascoe. 'This'll be a quiet patch  normally?'
    'Quiet enough. Popular for break-ins.'
    'Is that so?'
    Crowther nodded and chewed his gammon systematically. About thirty chews to the mouthful,  Pascoe thought.
    'It's mostly business people now, you see,' resumed Crowther. 'Working in the town. There's been  a lot of building.'
    Another mouthful. Another thirty chews.
    'And renovation.'
    'Like Brookside Cottage?'
    'That's right,' said Crowther, nodding vigorously.
    'Was it empty when Mr Pelman decided to sell  it?'
    That's right.' Another mouthful. This time  Pascoe counted. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine. 'Mr  Pelman didn't like that. It was a handy way into  his woods from the road for anyone wanting to  pot a few birds. And the cottages themselves was  always getting broken into. Not that there wasanything to take, you understand. Practising for  bigger stuff, I reckoned. But they did a lot of  damage.'
    So. Vandals and poachers all swanning round  Brookside Cottage. Homicidal? It was surprising  how many people were under the right conditions.
    Even people you knew quite well.
    'Pelman put it on the market then?' mused  Pascoe. 'That was quite clever. He'd make a bit  of money and have someone there to man his  frontier post.'
    'Hardly that,' objected Crowther. 'You can get  into Pelman's woods at a dozen places. And there's  not all that much in there anyhow.'
    'No red deer and grizzly bear?'
    'No,' answered Crowther, adding, as though in  reproach of Pascoe's mild levity, 'just a lot of  coppers at the moment.'
    Pascoe sipped his beer. Crowther's tastes ran to  lukewarm brown ale, it appeared. The thought put  him in mind of the two village pubs, in one of  which Rose Hopkins had last been seen by anyone  alive to tell the tale. Except one person.
    'What's the difference between the Eagle and  Child and the Queen Anne?' he asked. It sounded  like a child's conundrum, but Crowther didn't  seem puzzled.
    'The Eagle's a free house. Owned by Major  Palfrey. The Anne's tied to the brewery. Mr and  Mrs Dixon just manage it. Not just. They manage  it very well, I mean. Nice couple.'
    'Who uses which? Or is it just the nearest that  people go to?'
    Crowther looked at him closely.
    'Couldn't say,’ he said. 'I use the Anne myself.'
    'Just because it's the nearest?' insisted Pascoe.  'I should have thought the local law would have  had to preserve a fine show of impartiality towards  licensed premises.'
    'I do,’ said Crowther. 'When I'm on duty. But  off, I like to be comfortable where I drink.'
    He seemed to make his mind up that Pascoe  had a sympathetic ear and leaned over the table  confidentially.
    'Difference is, and this is just me, mind you,'  he went on, 'the Dixons make you feel welcome,  the Major always makes me feel he's doing me a  favour by pulling me a pint.'
    He nodded emphatically and started rolling an  absurdly thin cigarette in an ancient machine.  Pascoe laughed knowingly.
    'Major Palfrey thinks he's the squire rather than  the landlord, does he?'
    'That's the trouble with this place now,' averred  the constable, lighting his cigarette which burnt  like a fuse. 'It's full of bloody squires. Trouble is,  there aren't enough peasants to go round.'
    Constable Crowther, it appeared, invariably took  a ten-minute nap after his lunch and could see no  reason to interrupt his routine today. Pascoe was  sorry about this. The man's conversation interested  him and he was still desperately in need of things to interest him. He decided to take a walk, down to  the village perhaps, find out what was going on.  As he stood up, he realized he hadn't mentioned  the arrangements that had been made for the  evening.
    Mrs Crowther came into the kitchen and bustled  around her snoozing husband,