“I imagine you knew Herbert Narton, sir?”

The Vicar stared at him. “So that’s the way the land lies. What’s this about? Have you been pulling the wool over my eyes, young man? Are you one of these reporters?”

“I promise I’ve nothing to do with any newspaper,” Rory said carefully. “And it’s perfectly true what I told you about Miss Kensley. I saw her only a few days ago and…and she’s much easier in her mind about her aunt now. But I owe you an apology-I wasn’t entirely frank with you when I last called.”

Gladwyn frowned. He had not asked Rory to sit down. “Then you’d better explain yourself.”

“A week or two ago, I was approached in town by someone who knew of my friendship with Miss Kensley.” It was a slight perversion of the truth, but it would serve. “Herbert Narton.”

“Bless my soul. What was the man up to?”

“He led me to believe he was a police officer, a plain-clothes man engaged in an undercover investigation.”

“Into Miss Penhow’s disappearance?”

Rory nodded. “And into Serridge. I’m renting rooms in Serridge’s house in Bleeding Heart Square. The house that used to belong to Miss Penhow.”

“So you actually know Mr. Serridge? You really have pulled the wool over my eyes.”

“I’m sorry, sir. But you must remember that I believed that Narton was a police officer and that I was helping him in his investigation. I only found out the truth this morning. I saw Mrs. Narton.”

“Poor woman. She’s taken this very hard. It is not to be wondered at.”

“She was acting very strangely, sir. She was having a bonfire.”

“Yes. The contents of that cupboard, no doubt.”

“What?”

“It was a bone of contention between them, Mr. Wentwood.” Gladwyn opened his tobacco pouch. “You’d better sit down. Perhaps you deserve some sort of explanation.”

He waved Rory to an armchair and began to fill his pipe. “It’s perfectly true that Herbert Narton was a police officer. He was a detective too, in the latter part of his career. He married a local girl, Margaret-he was a Saffron Walden man himself-and came to live in Rawling. It must be said they weren’t particularly well liked-they were a self-contained couple, kept themselves to themselves, and he never let anyone forget he was a police officer. They had one child, Amy.”

“I saw her gravestone on my way here.”

Mr. Gladwyn picked up his matches. “A silly girl, I’m afraid. Head full of fancies. Not very bright, either. Still, there was no real harm in her. Miss Penhow hired her to work at Morthams Farm soon after they moved here. They were doing the girl a favor, really. She was barely literate, and she hadn’t any training in domestic service. And morally-well, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I suspect she was sadly free with her favors. Some of our village girls are little better than animals in that respect. Well, in due course the inevitable happened and she found herself pregnant. She refused to say who the father was. Her parents were very upset, and it didn’t do much for Narton’s career, either. But they didn’t throw her out. I think they were going to make the best of it. Put the child up for adoption, perhaps, or bring it up as their own. Unfortunately it never came to that. There were complications in childbirth. The baby was stillborn and the girl herself died. It shook the parents very badly. Narton was never the same.”

“I suppose his death was suicide?”

“Eh? It’s not for me to say. There will have to be an inquest of course, but I understand that the verdict will probably be accidental death. After all, there’s nothing to show it wasn’t an accident. The shotgun had belonged to his late father-in-law, I’m told-it hadn’t been used for years. No one will want to make this harder for Mrs. Narton than it need be. Our thoughts and prayers must go out to her at this sad time.”

“But why did he do it?” Rory asked.

“As I said, let us assume it was an accident.”

“Not his death. I mean why did he pretend he was still in the police?”

“The short answer is that his mind was unhinged, Mr. Wentwood. He was a fantasist. I believe the doctors call it persecution mania nowadays. He was convinced that Mr. Serridge was responsible for all his woes just because Amy had once worked at Morthams Farm. She was there for a few months. She wasn’t even a live-in servant, either. But none of this mattered to Herbert Narton. The baby’s father could have been any one of our many local scoundrels. But he decided it must have been Mr. Serridge. That’s why he wanted to reopen the Penhow investigation. He wanted to embarrass Mr. Serridge as much as possible. I’ve no doubt that what he would really have liked was to see Mr. Serridge in the dock for the murder of Miss Penhow.” Mr. Gladwyn at last struck a match. He stared fixedly at Rory. “In his strange, twisted mind Narton no doubt thought that was the only way he could avenge what he thought of as the murder of his own daughter.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Miss Tuffley glanced regularly out of the window. She kept up a running commentary when Father Bertram ushered Marcus and Sir Rex out of the Presbytery House and into their car.

The worrying thing about it all, Lydia thought, was that Marcus might be back, particularly if he and Rex Fisher had been arranging with Father Bertram to hire the undercroft for another British Union meeting. She knew that the undercroft had been used for the purpose before but she wouldn’t put it past Marcus to have suggested it again simply because it was close to her refuge in Bleeding Heart Square.

She left the office a little after six o’clock. Miss Tuffley walked downstairs with her, sniffing the roses as she went.

“You know what I need?” she said cheerfully. “A nice gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady.”

Lydia smiled at her. “We could all do with one of those.”

Miss Tuffley turned left toward Holborn, and Lydia turned right toward Bleeding Heart Square. There was a letter waiting for her on the hall table. She took it upstairs to the sitting room. She didn’t recognize the writing, though the white envelope was good quality. She tore it open.

10 Alvanley Mansions

Lower Sloane Street

London SW1

Telephone: Sloane 1410 November 21st My dear Lydia Your godfather reminded me that I have been most remiss in not writing for so long. I don’t think we have seen you since your wedding. Your godfather’s health has not improved, sadly, and we are unable to get about as much as we should like. But I wonder if I might prevail on you to have tea with us? The weekend would suit us best-Saturday or Sunday. Do let me know-this weekend if you like. Your godfather sends his affectionate good wishes, as of course do I. Yours very sincerely,

Hermione Alforde

My godfather, Lydia thought, just what Miss Tuffley ordered? A gentleman admirer who knows how to treat a lady?

There was a knock on the door. When she opened it, she found Mr. Serridge standing on the landing and looking intently at her.