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windows and pedimented stone arches. I wonder who owns such a place. There’s a walled kitchen garden and various grades of glass house visible.’
    We ordered our beer and boiled mutton in the snug of the Duck and Drake, a most charming country inn with a low timbered ceiling, brownish yellow walls well seasoned by generations of smokers, heavy oak furniture, horse brasses and a homely log fire crackling in the settle of an enormous stone fireplace. We commented on the old manor and it turned out that Foxbury Hall, the property of Lord Astor, was, for the winter months, from September to March, rented out to, of all people, Ethby Sands, who before his illness had been M.P. for Norwich. Nothing had been seen of him. The valet Garson was more sociable, particularly with the ladies, but this season nothing much had been seen of him either. A landau was parked out front on the gravel drive and remained unused.
    â€˜Mr Sands is very ill, gentlemen,’ said the landlord. ‘I’ve heard reports he is nearing the end and has not long to live. He weakens daily. I believe our local builder is preparing a coffin. That’ll be twopence apiece for the beer and fourpence halfpenny for the dinner. Thankee kindly, gents.’
    â€˜Thank you landlord. Have you any tobacco, perchance? A strong mixture?’
    â€˜Help yourself from the jar, sir. Do you require a clay churchwarden? The tobacco is on the house.’
    â€˜My charred old briar will be adequate for my needs, thank you landlord, but I think another pint of your excellent “Old Worthy” is in order.’
    We were about to return to the snug to enjoy our ale, smoke our pipes and take stock of events, when a clergyman looking most perplexed and out of sorts wandered into the hostelry. ‘Dear me,’ he snorted, ‘I fear this wretched unknown artist who holds the rodent population in such high esteem has struck again!’
    â€˜Aye,’ said the landlord, wiping a pewter tankard behind the bar. ‘I ’ears Miss Morley the spinster at Crystal Cottage reported her front door had been defaced, besmirched by black paint. Someone unseen and unknown, the culprit.’
    â€˜How long must this sorry state of affairs continue? Another murder I hear over at Potters Ditch and we have barely buried the first victim, poor George Flemps. It just won’t do. To be decapitated like that.’
    â€˜Was the head ever found, vicar? They dredged the channel using nets the week afore last.’
    â€˜No, Isiah, but dear me, please spare the gruesome details. I see we have two gentlemen present.’
    â€˜Please sit down, padre,’ said Holmes kindly, striking a vesta to light his pipe. ‘Might I order you a glass of sherry, or something stronger? A cherry brandy? The air is so damp and chill at this time of day.’
    â€˜Most kind. I am the incumbent here, the Rev. Marsden-Lee. I shall have a cherry brandy if you don’t mind. Oh dear me, this wretched outbreak of graffiti in our Christian, law-abiding community has left me quite irritable and put out. Still, these things are sent to test one’s faith, I suppose.’
    â€˜Perhaps I could be of assistance,’ said Holmes, surrounded by a blue-tinged wreath of tobacco smoke. ‘I have some small experience concerning the dealings of petty crime.’ He chuckled, nudging me in the ribs as I drank the dregs of my Old Worthy. ‘I’m quite the puzzle-solver, you know.’
    â€˜Well, I would be glad of some help, sir. It concerns the wall of my vestry.’

8
    A Puzzle of Graffiti
    â€˜Your marshland church is “decorated and perpendicular” – late medieval I should wager,’ remarked Holmes as we crossed to the churchyard and passed beneath the venerable old lychgate.
    â€˜Oh, indeed, we are fortunate enough to possess a much later painted window of thirty-four panels, its original glass preserved.’
    We traipsed round the