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“So let's sum up: what do we have so far?” Superintendent Collins asked Rani, when he had listened to his account of his talk with Mrs. Lancaster. “First and most important the fact that Evelyn Southwell had a visit, during the afternoon of the day she died, from someone probably posing as an emissary of the DSS or some other branch of the social services. In the course of the visit, the woman took Mrs. Southwell's keys, returning them later.”

“That's the important point, isn't it?” Rani put in.

“Oh yes. Since the porter seems to have known little about her beyond her appearance, and since she seems to have done the same to none of the other residents, that was obviously the purpose of her visiting Mrs. Southwell. I must admit I did have a twinge of doubt while you were telling me.”

“Why was that, sir?”

“It seemed such a rotten story. Couldn't she have come up with anything better? But then I thought that any story, however convincing, had the same drawback: if the
woman was legitimate why hadn't she got the relevant keys from the porter? That way she would have avoided disturbing a vulnerable old person—Southwell may not have seemed particularly vulnerable, but old people always have a greater stock of worries than the rest of us because they are comparatively weak, mentally and physically.”

“And the answer to your question, sir, is that the porter would be much more reluctant to give up keys, even temporarily, without making a thorough check on the person asking and the reason for the request. Not to mention that the porter would have been able to give a physical description of the visitor to us after the murder.”

“Exactly. Mrs. Southwell only began to have doubts after she had given up the keys, and she quite soon got them back. The whole incident became something to talk about at tea time.
Anything
happening in an old people's home becomes a topic of conversation.”

“Yes, sir. And in fact Mrs. Southwell doesn't seem to have had any serious doubt that the visitor was a member of the social services. I suppose we've got to remember that we're probably dealing with an actress. And with someone who, in her job as traveling vicar, no doubt deals a lot with the social services and has had many opportunities to observe their manner and their ways of approaching old people.”

Collins shot him a glance, and remained sunk in thought.

“Are we, though?” he said at length. “Dealing, I mean, with someone who is both a vicar and actress—both sides of a saucy joke. I need convincing that we are. Do we have any reason to associate Evelyn Southwell's murder
with someone whose path crossed with hers, if it ever did, thirty-odd years before?”

Rani nodded, but confidently. He had had longer to think of this than Collins.

“I'd say there is a reason for thinking a connection is likely, sir. Mrs. Southwell had had a visit from Eve McNabb a few days before. They had discussed those happenings you mention of thirty-odd years before. That same evening Eve rang Jean Mannering and told her the gist of the conversation. How many visitors do you think Southwell had in a month? Maybe several when she had that eighty-fifth birthday, but I bet that's all died down.” He thought, then added shamefacedly: “I should have asked the porter.”

“No harm done.” Collins jumped up and went to the door. He barked to the newest recruit to the detective force: “Ring Autumn Prospect, an old people's setup in Keighley. Talk to the porter. Ask how many visitors—recorded visitors—Evelyn Southwell had had in the four weeks before her death.”

He came back into his office and sat down.

“Okay. This is definitely something that needs to be looked into. But we mustn't forget that there might be a hundred and one things in Evelyn Southwell's private or professional life that are much more important, much more likely to lead to murder.”

“Yes, sir. But we ought also to ask, if such a thing turns up, why it has suddenly become important when Southwell was in her last years.”

“Fair enough . . .” Collins thought, then said: “The reason I'm uneasy is that this business of getting John
McNabb out of May's life is not only way in the past. It's also the fact that it never became a criminal matter, or even a matter of any kind of importance. It was successful. John tamely packed his bags and went. If the police had been called in, they might have arrested Jean later on a charge of wasting police time or some kind of minor conspiracy, but it wouldn't have been worse than that. Why has the incident become important now?”

The serious-minded face of the new detective constable poked itself around the door.

“No recorded visits to Mrs. Southwell, other than Miss McNabb's, in the month before she died, sir.”

“Thank you, Ackley.”

Collins chewed at imaginary gum in his mouth.

“Now let's get her method straight in our minds. She—the woman observed by the porter—studies Autumn Prospect at lunchtime and takes advantage of the porter's absences. Probably she doesn't know she's been spotted. Then she comes back at night. By then your man had clocked off, hadn't he?”

“Oh yes. But the night porter has been talked to, as soon as doubts were raised about the death. He usually watches television and dozes most evenings if nothing comes up. The night nurse, if she spots anything unusual, goes around to see that everything's all right. It's usually just lights left on. That's what happened in this case, around about ten o'clock, when she found Southwell alive and asleep. The porter went around at eleven, checked all the outside doors, then locked the main door and went to sleep in his chair, dozing off and waking at odd times through the night.”

“If only he'd locked the main door first, then gone and checked up around the flats.”

“True. Our man suggested that. The porter protested that he might have had to unlock the door and let a late visitor out.”

“Tough. Anyway, it doesn't seem as though Autumn Prospect is plagued by many visitors at any time of the day, let alone late at night.”

“Well, that's when the murderer will have got out, sir: late at night when the porter was doing his rounds.”

“All this suggests that some reconnaissance was done in the days leading up to the murder. She—or he—established there was a routine, and took advantage of it.”

“That may account for the gap between Eve McNabb ringing up Jean Mannering and the actual committing of the murder.”

Collins sighed.

“You won't give up on our lady vicar, will you, Rani? Are lady vicars particularly prone to homicide?”

“Not so far as I know, sir. But reputation, a stainless career to put on the resumé, must be very important to the clergy.”

Collins had heard talk in the police canteen about Rani and Eve, and now risked a reference to it.

“What is your lady friend doing at the moment, Rani?”

“She was going to talk to a retired teacher from Blackfield Road this morning. We're supposed to be meeting when I finish my shift in ten minutes.”

“Well, why don't you bring her up here for a chat before you go gallivanting or whatever you plan on doing? Just in case something has come up.”

Rani nodded, and as soon as he had gone, Collins glanced at his case notes and phoned a number in the Huddersfield area. When he got a recorded message giving a mobile number, he rang that.

“Yes?” A warm, concerned voice, not at all offhand or bossy.

“Is that the Reverend Mannering?”

“It is.”

“Ah. This is Chief Superintendent Collins of the Leeds CID.”

“What can I help you with, Chief Superintendent?”

“I wanted to have a word with you about the death of Mrs. Evelyn Southwell.” There was a silence. “I believe you knew the lady years ago when you both lived in Crossley.”

“I knew
of
her, Superintendent. I don't recall that our paths ever crossed. I'd actually been to the Blackfield Road Primary as a tot, but that was before her time.”

“Yes, and before Mrs. McNabb's time too. You did know Mrs. McNabb quite well, didn't you?”

“Oh yes. She was a lovely person. It was terrible to hear of her death recently. Sixty-seven is no great age these days, is it?”

“No, it's not. I believe her daughter, Eve, rang you recently after she'd talked to Mrs. Southwell.”

“That's right, she did.” Again a silence. Collins registered that the voice was beginning to sound less warm.

“I wonder if I could come and talk to you. Or if you could come yourself to Leeds and talk to me here.”

“I'm in Bradford at the moment . . . I think the best thing would be for me to come over. Is it Millgarth?
Right. I'll ask at the desk for you. If I can find parking, it won't take long.”

Collins thanked her and put the phone down. He deputed Ackley to meet her at the desk and take her to one of the more cheerful interview rooms. Then he greeted Rani and Eve.

“Thanks for coming. I remember saying we should keep in touch so that I knew anything you knew. Come into my office so you can tell me about your talk with this teacher.”

“There's not much to tell of a factual nature,” said Eve, settling into an armchair, with Rani behind her. “But we did talk about some things that fill in the background of the characters concerned. George Wilson is a retired teacher, and he's lived in Crossley most of his life. Inevitably he knew Jean Mannering, and he worked for Mrs. Southwell and I learned a lot about her.”

“And the community?” pressed Collins. “I'd be interested in hearing whether people in the village knew about Mannering's lesbianism, and how they reacted.”

“Yes, we did talk about that. A split reaction, as you might expect. For example, when Jean's parents told her it was time she moved away from home, most of the village assumed it was her sexual orientation they were objecting to, and some thought they were being very old-fashioned in reacting like that. George, though, thought the parents were fed up with being bossed around and organized in their own home.”

“She's a control freak, then?”

“Yes, or was then. And this got into her other personal relationships. There were a string of these, and George
said either Jean gained the control that she yearned for and then over time lost interest—”

“Why? No challenge any longer?”

“Something like that, I should think. Or else she was unsuccessful, the partner didn't want a role as an underling, and she moved on.”

“I see.” Collins thought for a moment. “Did Mr. Wilson know much about Jean's career in the church?”

“No, not a great deal, though he sometimes read about her in the paper. Crossley takes the
Halifax Guardian
. I expect if he'd seen the Huddersfield paper regularly he'd have seen the name a lot more often. She's currently a sort of roving stand-in around the Yorkshire parishes, and is tipped for a seat or place in general synod or convocation or some such body. Sorry to be vague, but I was brought up to be vague about religion. And I don't think the C of E means any more to George than it does to me. He just has a general sense that she's done pretty well and is highly thought of.”

“Well,” said Collins, getting up, “a good name is always worth hanging on to, and a lot of good names conceal a shadow life of one kind or another. Look at politicians. Sometimes churches are like politicians: they have a great deal of covering up to do—or feel that they have to. In some cases I feel the high-ups ought to be charged with conspiracy. I'm thinking about concealing abuse against children by clergymen. But that's beside the point. It still seems as if we're a long way from a motive for murder.”

Eve and Rani got up.

“I've got her coming to talk to me, by the way,” Collins said, leading the way out. “Ackley's fetching her up.”

“Who? Jean Mannering?” asked Eve.

“The same. I got her on her mobile and she's coming over from Bradford.”

They came out of a corridor, on to a wide, airy landing with a view down to the ground floor just below. As they all idled along, talking about Evelyn Southwell, a door opened below them and coming through and aiming for the interview rooms, Eve saw a young detective, obviously newish and eager to please or make some impression of a positive kind. With him was a woman in a gray skirt and a god collar over shirt and dark stockings. She was talking politely and relaxedly but in low tones, and Eve caught only a few words.

“I do get many more people saying how much they welcome women to positions of influence in the church than I hear from people who curse the day it happened. But then I suppose I would . . .”

The last word faded as they walked toward swing doors and out of hearing. Eve swung around and looked at Superintendent Collins. He nodded his head.

“That's her,” he said.

“But it's not,” said Eve. “That woman is definitely not Jean Mannering.”