‘Right, Billy, what’s going on and who are these people?’ he demanded.

Brown was a thickset fellow with a pronounced limp, caused by a shell splinter in the Italian campaign. His Monte Cassino disability had gained him the job of coroner’s officer when he returned to the police force.

‘Like I said on the phone, sir, we’ve got an apparent accidental death from a chap squashed by a tractor.’ He jerked a thumb back at the barn, where the main door was open again and the body covered with a tattered canvas sheet. ‘But it’s a bit unusual, so I thought it better to be on the safe side and ask you to have a look before we move him.’

Crippen’s eyes peered out from under the wide brim of his brown trilby, scanning the other men standing around him.

Billy Brown pointed them out, one at a time.

‘This is Aubrey Evans. He runs the farm down the road in partnership with his cousin here, Jeff Morton.’

The two men nodded in acknowledgement. Aubrey Evans was a typical Mid-Wales farmer, impassive in nature but with shrewd eyes beneath the flat cap that he wore at a rakish angle. About forty years old, his big muscular body was clad in a brown warehouse coat, held closed by a length of binder twine tied around his waist.

Jeffrey Morton had a family resemblance to his slightly older cousin, but he was slightly shorter, though still sturdy. He had a fuller, more open face, marred by a large purple birthmark on his left temple. Like Aubrey, he wore a crumpled tweed cap, but it was perched on the back of his head, revealing slightly gingerish hair. Being as much involved in their mechanical repair business as working the farm, he wore faded blue dungarees, oil-stained at the front.

‘And this gentleman?’ demanded Crippen, staring at an older man standing behind the two cousins.

‘I’m Mostyn Evans, owner of the farm,’ came a deep voice as he stepped forward. ‘At least I own the land and used to work it until I passed the business on to these two here. Aubrey’s my son and Jeff is my nephew.’