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the sofa. “Were there?”
    Everyone in the drawing-room at Strontfield Park stopped talking.
    â€œTwo,” said Quentin.
    â€œBill was on the Bench, remember,” said Annabel Pollock quickly. “They must have known him quite well.”
    Helen’s face cleared. “Oh, that would be Superintendent Bream from Calleford.”
    â€œNot him.” Quentin shook his head. “I meant policemen in plain clothes from Berebury. Sitting at the back of the church.”
    The silence in the room became more noticeable now.
    â€œHow do you know?” asked Helen between dry lips.
    â€œThey were at the inquest. The same two. They sat at the back there, too. I asked Mr. Puckle who they were then.”
    â€œAnd who were they?” asked Annabel Pollock breathlessly into the silence.
    Mr. Puckle cleared his throat. “Detective Inspector Sloan and a young detective constable, Miss Pollock. I don’t know his name. I—ahem—leave most of the Court work to my junior partners these days. I’m a little out of touch with the—er—Force in consequence.”
    â€œNot from Calleford at all then?”
    â€œOh, no,” said the solicitor. “Inspector Sloan is head of Berebury’s Criminal Investigation Department. Granted, it’s not a big one. Anything of—er—great criminal moment is referred to the County Constabulary Headquarters at Calleford.” He turned as a small sound came from Helen Fent’s direction. “But I don’t think that …”
    She didn’t hear him.
    She had fainted.

SIX
    Cynthia Paterson had been persuaded to go back to luncheon with the Renvilles after the funeral.
    â€œIt’s very light.” Ursula Renville sketched a gesture in the air with her long delicate fingers. “Just some soup and cold meat—I left it all ready before I came out. I didn’t think we’d be hungry after all this …”
    â€œWell …”
    â€œThere’s plenty, though, Cynthia. Do come.” She shivered slightly in spite of the heat. “Richard’s got to go back to his office afterwards. Come back and stay with me for a while.”
    â€œWhat about Professor Berry? Hadn’t I better see if …”
    â€œThe Washbys are looking after him.” Ursula Renville peered round vaguely. “Veronica told me. And taking him back to Cleete afterwards.”
    â€œGood,” said Cynthia, making up her mind. “Then I’d be delighted. I’ll just let the dog out for a run and then I’ll be round. By the way, Ursula, was that call of Paul Washby’s on Saturday night anything important? I haven’t heard of anyone being really ill.”
    Ursula Renville gave her friend an indulgent smile. “Cynthia Paterson, when will you stop being the rector’s daughter? Whatever it was that was wrong there’s no need for you to rush round with calves’ foot jelly any more.”
    â€œI just thought you might know,” said Cynthia mildly. “That’s all.”
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I do.” Ursula Renville could no more resist the challenge of implied ignorance than the next woman. “Veronica Washby mentioned it because it was all so odd. I wonder,” added Ursula inconsequentially, “why calves’ foot jelly was supposed to be so good for you.”
    â€œWhat was odd about the call?”
    â€œThe whole thing.” Ursula was unenlightening. “Perhaps they’re full of vitamins.”
    â€œWhat are?”
    â€œCalves’ feet.”
    Cynthia demanded detail about Paul Washby’s call.
    â€œWell, in the first place it wasn’t a proper message, you know.”
    Cynthia said she didn’t know.
    â€œNot a person-to-person message and not a written message,” elaborated Ursula. Theories of communication by other media—non-verbal or otherwise—had not yet reached Constance Parva. This was not to