‘A dreadful fatality,’ said Miss Silver.

‘Shocking,’ said Mrs Bush. ‘A nice quiet gentleman if ever there was one, in spite of being foreign. And it’s my belief that he shot himself same as the verdict in the inquest. Rubbidge, I call it, their trying to put it on Mr Madoc. Isn’t that just the police all over? I’ve got a nephew in them – constable, he is – Jim Pincott, my eldest brother’s son – and I said to him only last night, “And what’s the good of an inquest, will you tell me, if that’s all the notice you take of what the jury says? Didn’t they hear all the evidence? Didn’t the coroner put it to them proper? And didn’t they bring it in suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed, same as you see it in the papers? And what call have you got to go bringing down the London police after that?” Let them stay at home and mind their own murders, I say, and not come ferreting and worriting where nobody wants them!’

Miss Silver gazed in timid admiration.

‘How well you put it!’

Mrs Bush smiled complacently.

‘Oh, I can hit a nail on the head when it’s there to be hit. And I’ll say that for Jim, he hadn’t got a word to say, only it wasn’t none of his doing.’

‘Then it is the London police who have arrested Mr Madoc?’

‘Two of them,’ said Mrs Bush. ‘You’d think they’d have enough to do at home with all you see in the papers. Come in to see Mr Bush, the two of them – Chief Detective Inspector Lamb and Sergeant Abbott. Of course Mr Bush being the one to find the body along with Miss Janice Meade, they couldn’t move hand nor foot, as you might say, without his statement. But it wasn’t anything they got from him that made them go after Mr Madoc. It was something one of those ’vacuee boys said, and if he was mine I’d put him across my knee – coming down here and taking people’s characters away! I’m sure Mrs Brewer was in here Saturday evening, the very day poor Mr Madoc was took. She goes there twice a week to oblige, and she said, “Mrs Bush, he never done it. Hasty he may be, but what’s a hard word or two when you’re used to them? – and there’s a lot of difference between language and shooting people.’ ”

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Miss Silver in reverential tones.

Mrs Bush leaned nearer.

‘Of course they do say there was something going on between him and that Miss Brown.’

She checked suddenly and drew back. ‘Well, there – I shouldn’t have said that, with you staying at the Rectory. I hope you won’t mention it to Miss Sophy.’

Miss Silver looked shocked.

‘Oh, no, indeed. It was quite natural, I’m sure. I don’t really know Miss Brown at all, but I have heard that there was some talk about her and Mr Madoc. She seems to have had a very severe shock, poor thing.’

Mrs Bush primmed her lips. Even according to her own indulgent standards she had been indiscreet. But what a chance of obtaining inside information. The Rectory maids were as tight as tight – not a word out of either of them. She allowed temptation a foothold, and succumbed.

‘Hardly eats a thing, they tell me.’

Miss Silver sighed.

‘She seems very low, poor thing.’

Mrs Bush leaned half across the counter.

‘They do say she went out to meet Mr Madoc in the Cut, but there’s such a lot of gossip, you don’t know what to believe. Mr Bush, he’s never seen anything – not in that quarter. I won’t say as much for other people. I’m sure I don’t know what the girls are coming to. There’s that Gladys Brewer, no more than turned sixteen – it’s not once nor twice Mr Bush has had to speak to her, up in the churchyard nights with bits of boys that want a good tanning if you ask me. And I’m sure I pity Mrs Brewer from my heart, for if she hasn’t got trouble coming to her, I don’t know who has – and her own fault, poor thing, the way she’s spoilt the girl. Mr Bush, he’s had to speak to her very severe, and she’s not the only one. But as to anything between Mr Madoc and Miss Brown, he’s never seen anything, as I said. And who’d be likely to if it wasn’t him? That’s what I say. Regular as clockwork round the churchyard every night of his life, and if there were any goings on, well, he’d be the first to know, wouldn’t he?’

‘Unless they counted on his being so regular and waited till he was gone, Mrs Bush. People can be sadly deceitful when they are doing wrong.’

Mrs Bush nodded condescendingly. She had put Miss Silver down in her own mind as one of those humble dependents, neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring – a governess or some such that Miss Sophy had got down to stay by way of a kindness. That sort was in the way of knowing things, but you didn’t have to mind your p’s and q’s with them.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Never five minutes out, Mr Bush isn’t. Ten o’clock he takes his key from the hook on the dresser and out he goes on his round, wet or fine.’

Miss Silver coughed in a deprecating manner.

‘Why does he take his key?’ she enquired.

Mrs Bush looked important.

‘Because he’s responsible for the church as well as for the churchyard – verger and sexton, same as his father before him. And if there was to be a window left open or suchlike, he’d go in and shut it. Of course they’re too high up for anyone to get in, but if it was to come on to blow there’d be the rain, and if it was a gale, broken glass on the top of that. It’s the Rector opens them – that’s just between you and me. Says the church is damp. He’s one of those learned gentlemen that can’t see past what they’ve read in a book. Now it stands to reason no place won’t keep dry with the windows open to the rain, but he goes on opening them, and Mr Bush, he has to watch his chance to get them shut. Quite worries him, but as I say, what’s none of your doing it’s no use worrying after. But you know what men are – it’s no good talking, they just go their own way.’ Miss Silver gazed.

‘He does his round at ten o’clock every night?’

‘Regular as clockwork,’ said Mrs Bush.

MISS SILVER CAME out of the shop with six postcards in her handbag. A hundred yards down the road she was overtaken by Sergeant Abbott. He had hurried to catch her up. He now contemplated her with a mixture of surprise, affection, and awe.

‘Miss Silver!’

She had a charming smile for him.

‘Dear me, what a pleasant meeting.’ She shook hands.

Sergeant Abbott’s expression became modified. It took on a shade of sardonic humour. He had met Miss Silver on a case before, and the experience had left him her devoted admirer. He wondered very much what she was doing in Bourne, and whether she would tell him, or leave him to find out for himself.

She was graciously pleased to inform him that she was staying at the Rectory, to which he replied that he was on his way there to see Miss Brown. After a slight pause Miss Silver coughed and came to the point.

Later in the day Sergeant Abbott was reporting to Chief Inspector Lamb. The word report is perhaps too formal an expression. Sergeant Abbott was sometimes informal to an almost impudent degree. He cocked an eyebrow now and said sweetly, ‘Maudie has turned up, sir.’

Lamb said, ‘What!’

‘Miss Maud Silver, sir – Maudie the Mascot.’

Lamb was a good Methodist. He didn’t swear, but he turned purple.

‘At Bourne? What’s she up to this time?’

Sergeant Abbott declaimed musically, ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so unkind as man’s ingratitude.’

‘Stop playing the fool and let’s have a bit of sense, Frank! We’ve got our case, haven’t we? We’ve got our man? We could do with a bit more evidence, but you can’t expect murders to be done before witnesses. I say it’s a good enough case. He had motive and opportunity. And he recognised the weapon – that came out quite clear at the inquest – said he was familiar with the type. Well, I say that’s good enough. You’ll never get me to believe he put that key in his pocket and went home like he says. He took it because he meant to have things out with Harsch then and there. And he shot him. That’s what I say, and I think a jury will say it too. Well then, what does Miss Silver want? Who’s called her in?’