In the morning, relief and, it must be said, a certain amount of disappointment were experienced when the car appeared to have vanished. Then it was spotted some distance away, nearer to the church. This time the occupant was drinking from a Thermos flask and smoking. Later he got out and had a walk around, neither greeting anyone nor responding to friendly civilities on the village’s part with anything other than a curt nod.
The words Neighbourhood Watch could have been invented to describe Ferne Basset and it did not take long before it was generally agreed, round the counter at Brian’s Emporium, that the newcomer was casing the joint. Local burglaries, in spite of endlessly inventive and costly precautions, were common and commonly successful. Straightaway the decision was taken to ring the local bobby.
PC Colin Perrot’s beat covered four villages. He got more hassle from this one than all the others put together and always from what Colin had designated the ‘upper strata’. This lot weren’t prepared to accept the slightest deviation from what they regarded as the socially acceptable norm. He had been called out once late at night following a complaint about someone holding a rock concert. Had driven nine miles in the pouring rain to find music coming from one of the council houses that was half the level he could hear any night of the week through his own lounge walls.
‘They don’t know they’re born,’ muttered Colin to himself, putt-putting to a halt then heaving his BMW onto its stand. He went into the shop, listened, came out and made his way towards the stationary car. All the customers and staff came out and watched from the forecourt as PC Perrot rapped on the window which was promptly wound down.
‘What seems to be the situation?’ asked Brigadier Dampier-Jeans, a leading local worthy and chairman of the parish council, when the policeman returned.
‘Ordinance survey,’ replied Perrot. ‘Something to do with land measurement.’
‘A likely story,’ said the brigadier. ‘Saw his papers, did you?’
‘Of course,’ replied Perrot, somewhat huffily. He did not like to be told his job. ‘He has government authority.’
‘Why doesn’t the fellow get out and survey then, ’stead of sitting in his motor like a stuffed bison.’
‘There has to be two of them,’ explained PC Perrot. ‘The other chap’s been delayed.’
While talking, he had been setting the bike straight and climbing on. Now he kicked the pedal and roared away before they could all start jawing at him again. Speeding along, Perrot wondered if the copper in the Escort would get lucky and the bloke in the big house would make a run for it. At the same time he thanked his lucky rabbit’s foot it wasn’t him stuck out there on the greensward till the cows came home.
Later that afternoon, Hetty visited Mulberry Cottage, only briefly for she had left Candy fast asleep in her basket. Now, sipping a cup of strange tea which was the colour of pale straw, though not unpleasant, she accepted a second piece of iced gingerbread.
‘I heard,’ said Hetty, ‘that he was something to do with agriculture.’
‘I don’t think so, dear. My information was map measurement. Ground contours, that sort of thing.’
And that was saturation point as far as the man in the car was concerned. Now they reverted to the subject they had started with. Much more interesting than the stranger’s occupation and certainly more worrying. What was going on at the Old Rectory?
‘I couldn’t believe my eyes,’ said Hetty. She had said it before but so extraordinary was the scene her eyes could not believe that Evadne did not doubt her for a minute. ‘Feet up on the kitchen table. And poor Mrs Lawrence, who’d never even have him in the house, lying at death’s door.’
‘Incredible,’ said Evadne, who was really distressed. ‘What can Lionel be thinking of?’
‘Something’s gone wrong between them,’ said Hetty. ‘She didn’t take his lunch in for him before she went to Causton. That’s never happened before. He was shut in his study. She drove off and left him to it.’
‘They must have had a quarrel.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Hetty!’
‘About time Mrs Lawrence stood up for herself. He’s been ruling the roost for years. What’s more - and I wouldn’t want this to go any further - it’s all her money. He’s nothing more than a leech.’
Evadne nodded. The whole of Ferne Basset knew it was Ann’s money.
‘And when I left he was going at the papers in her desk like a madman. Ripping them up, flinging them about. His face was as red as a turkey cock’s. Mark my words, that man’s heading for a stroke.’