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clearing the table  with no effort at noise-evasion.
    'Miss Soper and I are going to spend the night  at Mr Culpepper's house,' said Pascoe. 'I'd like to  let Miss Soper sleep, though, as long as possible.  Is that OK?'
    'We could have kept you here,' answered the  woman. 'Our lad could have used the camp-bed.'
    'Thank you very much. But I didn't want to  trouble you. And Mr Culpepper was most insistent.'
    Crowther opened his eyes and looked straight  at Pascoe.
    'Culpepper,' he said. He made it sound like an  accusation. Then he went back to sleep.
    In Crowther's book, Culpepper was probably  one of the self-appointed squires, thought Pascoe  as he stood outside the station in the bright sunlight and took his bearings. He wasn't certain if he  altogether liked what he saw. Not that it wasn't  pretty. In the rememberable past Thornton Lacey  must have been a roadside hamlet of a couple of  dozen houses plus a church, a shop and a pub  which served the numerous farms in the rich  surrounding countryside. But things had changed.
    Over the hill one day, perhaps only a couple of  decades ago, had come the first - the first what?  He remembered the phrase in Colin's letter. Pallid  cits. The first pallid cit. Soon there must have been  droves of them. And they were still coming. He  recalled as he had driven in that morning an  arrowed notice on the outskirts of the village had  directed their attention to a High Class Development  of Executive Residences. It had made them laugh to  think of Colin and Rose in such company. Many  things had made them laugh on the journey.
    With an effort of will he returned his attention  to the village. Pallid cits had to be catered for. There  was a ladies' hairdressing salon very tastefully  slotted beneath an awryly-timbered top storey. At least two Gothic-scripted antique shops were  visible. Passing pallid cits had to be tempted to stop  and invest in the past. But not to stop permanently,  he suspected. No one defends the countryside and  its traditions more fiercely than he who has just  got planning permission for his own half-acre. The  Village Amenities Committee didn't sound like a  farmworkers' trade union, somehow.
    It's that bloody woman again, thought Pascoe  gloomily. Why have I taken against her so much  so rapidly? And I'm spending the night under  her roof.
    But why the hell should I? I didn't want to.
    That anger which had been bubbling under the surface all morning suddenly broke through again.  He had progressed about a quarter of a mile down the long, winding village street and now realized  he was opposite the Queen Anne. On an impulse  he crossed over and went in.
    It wasn't long till closing time and the bar was  empty.
    'Lager, please,' he said to the attractively solid-fleshed woman who came to take his order.
    'Thirsty weather,' she said with a smile.
    'Do you put people up?' he asked, sipping his  drink.
    'Sorry. You might try the Eagle and Child. They  have a couple of rooms there they sometimes  let.'
    'Thanks. Is it Mrs Dixon, by the way?' Pascoe  asked.
    That's right,' the woman answered, looking at  him with sudden wariness. 'Why?'
    'You served Mrs Hopkins, Mrs Rose Hopkins of  Brookside Cottage, last night I believe.'
    'Yes. Yes, I did.' She glanced through into the  other bar.
    'Sam. Sam, love. Got a moment?'
    A red, jolly-faced man, solid as his wife, stepped  through, a smile on his lips. Pascoe could understand how Crowther felt made welcome.
    'Lovely day, sir. Yes, my dear?'
    This gentleman's asking about Mrs Hopkins.'
    Sam Dixon composed his features to a solemnity  they clearly weren't made for.
    'A dreadful business. Are you from the Press,  sir?'
    'No,' said Pascoe. The man looked nonplussed  for a moment.
    'The thing is,’ he said finally, 'it's an upsetting  business. Molly - my wife - has spoken to the  police already. Now, we don't like talking about  our customers at the best of times, but in