In a calming voice Miss Silver said that she had no doubt it could be managed. She then went over to the door and spoke to the warder. If there was triumph in her heart, no discreetest shade of it was discernible in face or manner. She returned to her place, invited attention by her slight habitual cough, and said, ‘Pray, Mr Madoc, continue. I am deeply interested.’

He stared.

‘What do you think I am? I meant to hold my tongue – one isn’t bound to hang oneself! There’s some work I would have liked to finish. But they mustn’t arrest Bush. You see, it’s like this. I came back. After I’d got away with the key I walked all out for five or six minutes. I was going home. And then it came over me that I’d better go back. I didn’t want that key. If I’ve got to dot all the i’s and cross the t’s, I thought I’d made a fool of myself. I was angry. I didn’t want to give Medora the satisfaction of thinking I cared whether she went over to the church to talk to Harsch or not. I’d like to say there wasn’t any question in my mind about there being anything wrong between them, but she liked talking to him, and when we met we always quarrelled. I thought I’d punish her by putting the key down on the study doorstep for the maids to find in the morning.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I knew she’d enjoy explaining how it got there.’

Miss Silver sat with folded hands. She made no comment.

Evan Madoc leaned towards her.

‘Now listen carefully! I came back across the village street and entered the Cut. When I had come level with the church the clock began to chime for the third quarter.’ He hummed the four descending notes. ‘It does that three times for the quarter to. It had just got into the second chime when I heard the shot. I didn’t know where it came from – there’s a good deal of echo there, off the church and off the wall of the Cut. It’s difficult to remember exactly how one felt. I think, subconsciously, I was afraid it wasn’t Giles shooting at a fox, so I threw up a lot of protective stuff to convince myself that it was. Everything happened very quickly. Immediately after the shot someone in front of me in the Cut began to run. I hadn’t noticed him before – the trees keep the moonlight off the path – yews and hollies, very dense – you’ll have seen them – but I did see him open the door into the churchyard and run in. It was bright when the door was opened. When I got there it was standing a handsbreadth ajar. I looked in, and this is what I saw. The man who had just gone in was half way over to the door which opens on the Green, running fast, and someone else was just going out of that door. I couldn’t see who it was – I couldn’t say if it was man or woman – I just saw someone go out and bang the door. And then the second person got there, still running, and went out too.’

‘Pray continue,’ said Miss Silver.

He was frowning gloomily.

‘I changed my mind again. I wanted to get home. The police won’t understand that, but it’s true. I felt sick to death of being angry and wanting to punish Medora. I suppose I really knew that something had happened, but I wouldn’t admit it. I just wanted to get home. I went back down the Cut as quick as I could, and just as I came out of it I saw Bush cross over from the left of the main churchyard gate. He didn’t see me, because I was in the shadow, but I saw him. So there you are – he couldn’t possibly have shot Michael.’

‘He couldn’t have reached the spot where you saw him in the time?’

He drew with his finger on the table.

‘Look – the Cut is the shortest side of a very irregular oblong. I ran down it pretty fast. If Bush was the man I saw leaving the churchyard he couldn’t have made it in the time with double the distance to travel. You can measure it up for yourself. It’s pretty well twice as far from the gate on the Green to that corner, and then there’s all the way along the street to the main entrance, which is much nearer the Cut. Besides, Bush was coming quite slowly and leisurely from the opposite direction. And, to finish up with, if he’d really shot Michael, do you suppose he’d have been such a fool as to go back into the church and stay there till just before ten?’

Miss Silver observed him with attention.

‘Your points are very well taken. Now, Mr Madoc, you say that you did not recognise the first person who left the churchyard. But what about the man who ran – did you recognise him?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Who was it?’

‘An old poacher called Ezra Pincott. I saw him quite distinctly. The police had better get hold of him. He probably knows who he was after.’

Miss Silver regarded him steadily.

‘I am afraid that is impossible, Mr Madoc. Ezra Pincott was murdered on Tuesday night.’

IN THE GOVERNOR’S office Evan Madoc wrote a fierce black signature at the foot of his statement.

‘There you are!’ he said without any respect at all. ‘And now, I suppose, you will do your best to hang me!’

Miss Silver gave a faint hortatory cough. She rose to her feet with the air of a teacher dismissing a class. A spark of angry humour came and went in Madoc’s eyes. She smiled at him as she came over and gave him her hand.

‘I hope I shall see you again very soon,’ she said, and felt the long nervous fingers twitch.

She went out, and was presently followed by Sergeant Abbott, who tucked a hand inside her arm and took her out to lunch at the Royal George, which is the gloomiest and most respectable hotel in Marbury. It has a Regency front, a rabbit warren of older rooms with low ceilings and uneven floors on all different levels at the back, whilst its interior decoration perpetuates the taste of the great Victorian age. In the immense dining-room, where before the war Hunt Suppers were wont to be served, only some half dozen tables were occupied. Established by one of the heavily curtained windows, and served with watery soup in tepid plates, they were as free from being overheard or overlooked as if they had been in the middle of the Sahara.

Miss Silver undid her jacket, disclosing the fact that she was wearing a bog-oak brooch in the form of a rose with a pearl in the heart of it. Sergeant Abbott gazed at her with rapture.

‘Maudie, you’re marvellous!’

The neat, prim features endeavoured to preserve a proper severity. They failed. With the smile which she would have bestowed on a favourite nephew, Miss Silver attempted reproof.

‘My dear Frank, when did I give you permission to use my Christian name?’

‘Never. But if I don’t do it sometimes I shall develop an ingrowing, inverted enthusiasm – an inhibition, or a complex, or one of those things you get when you are thwarted. I’ve always felt that it was particularly bad for me to be thwarted.’

‘You talk a great deal of nonsense,’ said Miss Silver indulgently.

Aware that young men do not talk nonsense to their elders unless they are fond of them, her tone did nothing to discourage him. He therefore continued to talk nonsense until the waiter removed their soup plates and furnished them each with a small portion of limp white fish partially concealed by a sprig of parsley and a teaspoonful of unnaturally pink sauce. It all tasted even worse than it looked. Frank apologised.

‘They have much better food at the Ram, but we couldn’t very well go there in the circumstances. The local Superintendent tells me their Mrs Simpkins can make you believe that Hitler had never been born, and that you are really eating prewar food. Simpkins is the proprietor.’

Miss Silver inclined her head.

‘Yes. Miss Fell informs me that Mrs Simpkins used to be old Mr Doncaster’s cook. They were very well off in those days, but when he died they found that his income was largely derived from an annuity.’

Frank looked at her sharply.

‘You’ve been concealing things – you always do.’