‘Ralph?’ he said vaguely. ‘oh! no, it’s not Ralph. Ralph’s in London – damn! here’s old Miss gannett coming. I don’t want to have to talk to her about this ghastly business. See you tonight, Sheppard. Seven-thirty.’

I nodded, and he hurried away, leaving me wondering. ralph in London? But he had certainly been in king’s Abbot the preceding afternoon. he must have gone back to town last night or early this morning, and yet Ackroyd’s manner had conveyed quite a different impression. he had spoken as though ralph had not been near the place for months.

I had no time to puzzle the matter out further. Miss gannett was upon me, thirsting for information. Miss gannett has all the characteristics of my sister caroline, but she lacks that unerring aim in jumping to conclusions which lends a touch of greatness to caroline’s manoeuvres. Miss gannett was breathless and interrogatory.

Wasn’t it sad about poor dear Mrs Ferrars? A lot of people were saying she had been a confirmed drug-taker for years. So wicked the way people went about saying things. And yet, the worst of it was, there was usually a grain of truth somewhere in these wild statements. No smoke without fire! They were saying too that Mr Ackroyd had found out about it, and had broken off the engagement – because there was an engagement. She, Miss gannett, had proof positive of that. of course I must know all about it – doctors always did – but they never tell?

And all this with a sharp beady eye on me to see how I reacted to these suggestions.

Fortunately, long association with Caroline has led me to preserve an impassive countenance, and to be ready with small non-committal remarks. On this occasion I congratulated Miss Gannett on not joining in ill-natured gossip. Rather a neat counterattack, I thought. It left her in difficulties, and before she could pull herself together, I had passed on.

I went home thoughtful, to find several patients waiting for me in the surgery.

I had dismissed the last of them, as I thought, and was just contemplating a few minutes in the garden before lunch when I perceived one more patient waiting for me. She rose and came towards me as I stood somewhat surprised. I don’t know why I should have been, except that there is a suggestion of cast iron about Miss Russell, a something that is above the ills of the flesh.

Ackroyd’s housekeeper is a tall woman, handsome but forbidding in appearance. She has a stern eye, and lips that shut tightly, and I feel that if I were an under housemaid or a kitchenmaid I should run for my life whenever I heard her coming.

‘Good morning, dr Sheppard,’ said Miss Russell. ‘I should be much obliged if you would take a look at my knee.’

I took a look, but, truth to tell, I was very little wiser when I had done so. Miss Russell’s account of vague pains was so unconvincing that with a woman of less integrity of character I should have suspected a trumped-up tale. It did cross my mind for one moment that Miss Russell might have deliberately invented this affection of the knee in order to pump me on the subject of Mrs Ferrars’s death, but I soon saw that there, at least, I had misjudged her. She made a brief reference to the tragedy, nothing more. yet she certainly seemed disposed to linger and chat.

‘Well, thank you very much for this bottle of liniment, doctor,’ she said at last. ‘Not that I believe it will do the least good.’

I didn’t think it would either, but I protested in duty bound. After all, it couldn’t do any harm, and one must stick up for the tools of one’s trade.