'The same people?'

Pascoe nodded.

'Colin and Rose weren't married then.'

'What's this about correspondences?'

'I don't know. I don't remember much about it.'

Except one evening, the six of them, golden in the low-stooping sun, walking in companionable silence across a diagonally sloping field towards the distant village and its pub. The slope had separated their courses, pulling them apart so that they were strung out across the coarse, tussocky grass, only coming together again at the wooden gate in the lowest corner of the loose-stone wall. Make it Friday evening if possible, but bright and early Saturday if not. Do not fail us in this our command or our wrath shall be terrible and you know just how terrible my wrath can be! Seriously, it will delight me more than I can say if you come. It's not every day that we see Abelard reunited with Eloisa (and his vital equipment, I hope!) Love from us both,

Colin (and Rose)

Backhouse finished the letter with a sigh, made a note on a slip of paper, clipped it to the single pale lemon sheet and put it into a bright green plastic folder.

'I'll hang on to this,' he said. 'If I may.'

Not that it had any value at the moment. Probably it never would. But he preferred to work that way. Meticulousness is the better part of serendipity.

'Would you like another cup of tea?' he asked.

The door opened before Pascoe could answer. An ancient constable creaked wearily in, holding some typewritten sheets.

'Mr – that is, Sergeant – Pascoe's statement, sir.'

He laid the sheets carefully before Backhouse and retreated.

'Thank you, Crowther,' said Backhouse, turning the sheets round and pushing them towards Pascoe.

'Read it,' he said gently as Pascoe picked up a ball-point and made to sign at the bottom of the first sheet. 'Always read before you sign. Just as you always tell others to read before they sign, I hope.'