I don’t know what David would have done with my portrait, as it would have been too big to take with him, and he certainly wouldn’t have left it at home for Mrs. Tilling to stumble across. Perhaps he gave it to someone for safekeeping, and I’m hoping it’s not someone who knows me, like Ralph Gibbs.

Meanwhile, I’ve been begging Alastair to tell me how exactly he has all this defense training, but he always changes the subject. The more I get to know him, Angie, the more I think he’s up to something.

There was a surprising incident after church on Sunday, on the path outside, where everyone always gathers. Alastair was there—he says he loves to come and hear us sing in the choir—and Mrs. B. rushed up to him.

“You must let me introduce you to people,” she insisted, taking him around her flock.

The thing is, when they got to Colonel Mallard, I saw him hold back slightly.

“I really need to be getting on, Mrs. B.,” he said, all politeness, backing away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. B. boomed. “You need to know everyone here if you mean to make some money, eh what?” She nudged him, chortling.

The odd thing was that Colonel Mallard also seemed uncomfortable. He was in no mood to meet Alastair, so when Mrs. B. inevitably pulled them together, the scene was a little awkward, to say the least.

“How do you do,” they both said together, and then there was nothing for a long moment.

“Lovely weather, wouldn’t you say?” Alastair began, but—could I have been correct?—was he amused at something? His lips smiled in their usual polite way, and his upright stance was relaxed as ever, and yet there was a trace of humor in his voice.

It was as if they had met before. And not under these circumstances.

“Probably won’t last.” Colonel Mallard seemed to sneer at him, then turned quickly and found important things to discuss with the Vicar, baffling as that might seem.

Does Alastair know Colonel Mallard? And if so, in what capacity? It was all so terribly perplexing, so I decided to ask Hattie what she thought when I popped in for tea after church.

“What do you know about the Colonel who’s staying with Mrs. Tilling?”

“He’s tremendously rude, according to Mrs. Tilling, and hardly manages a conversation with her,” she said. “But she’s barely civil to him, especially since he had the audacity to offer her a lift home from Litchfield last week. It was pouring with rain and he stopped next to her on her bicycle and practically forced her into his car.” She giggled. “Can you imagine the tension in the air as they drove home?

“But he did give his room up to David when he came back, went to stay in a hotel in Litchfield. Although she tells me that’s only what was expected.” She shrugged. “If you ask me they’re tripping over each other, neither ready to call a truce. Why do you ask?”

“He had a peculiar exchange with Mr. Slater, as if they know each other, and not necessarily in a nice way. It makes me wonder if he’s doing something illegal, like the black market.”

“Oh dear,” she began, looking down. “I meant to tell you earlier, but I wasn’t sure how to put it. I was up with Rose the other night, and I saw him leaving his house at two in the morning. He strode off over the square. Heaven knows what he was doing.”

“Are you sure?” I couldn’t believe it was true. “When did he come back?”

“I didn’t see him come back, although I was up until three.” She rearranged Rose in her arms. “Venetia, he seems to be always popping out, and now Colonel Mallard is awkward around him. It does seem to indicate that he’s up to no good.”

“But everyone else in the village adores him. He put up the tables for the jumble sale last week—Mrs. Quail was in a complete state before he came. And he’s also been helping the Sewing Ladies transport their balaclavas to Litchfield in his car. And you know how he helped Silvie home after she came off her horse by Bullsend Brook. She thinks he’s wonderful.”

“But what was he was doing by Bullsend Brook in the middle of the afternoon? It simply doesn’t add up,” Hattie said.

“Maybe he’s just dabbling in the black market a little, saving himself a bit of money?”

“That would be fine, but he seems positively rolling in money, with the motorcar, the fine clothes, all the presents he gives you.”

“Maybe he’s selling his paintings?” I tried. “Mrs. B. has always been keen to get her hands on his works of art.”

“Are any of them gone?”

“No.” I shrugged, feeling the fight drain out of me. “He hasn’t sold so much as a sketch to Mrs. B., avoids her if he can. And all his paintings are still in his portfolio.” Except the one that David Tilling stole, I thought, and Lord knows where that is. “It doesn’t bode well, does it?”

“No, I’m sorry, Venetia,” Hattie said.

I sat feeling rather sorry for myself for a while, then pulled myself together. “Well, there’s nothing else for it then. I’ll have to follow him.”

“Oh, Venetia! It might be dangerous. Why don’t you see if you can find out other evidence before you do that?” Hattie asked.

We discussed it at length, and she persuaded me to ask some more questions, give it one last try. I promised I would, but it seems so hopeless. When I’m with him everything seems perfect and I feel such an idiot for even doubting him, but then when we’re apart, and all these strange things come up, I can’t help but wonder. Who is he?