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Updated: June 2, 2025
In the inner room the Vicar was calling for Gwenda. It was prayer time, he said. Rowcliffe had to drive Alice back that night to Upthorne. "Well," he said, as they left the Vicarage behind them, "you see he isn't going to die." "No," said Alice. "But he's out of his mind. I haven't killed him. I've done worse. I've driven him mad." And she stuck to it.
While the surgery door opened and shut, opened and shut again, she saw that her seems him was of all things the most unlikely. She remembered the house at Upthorne, and she knew that Rowcliffe was lying dead in the room upstairs. And the man there was coming out to stop her. Only in that case why hadn't they drawn the blinds down?
"Where did you get it?" the Vicar asked with his customary suspicion. "At Upthorne. Jim Greatorex gave it me." The Vicar was appeased. He thought nothing of it that Greatorex should have given his daughter tea. Greatorex was part of the parish. Rowcliffe was coming to the concert. Neither floods nor tempests, he declared, would keep him away from it.
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