According to the Evidence by Bernard Knight

only way forward for the moment.
    â€˜It’s got to be someone at that damned farm. I’ll go back there and worry the life out of them until something breaks, sir!’

SEVEN
    B y the time Richard Pryor returned to Tintern from Bristol, both Moira and Siân had left for the day. He drove his Humber up into the yard at the back of Garth House and parked it in the coach house, alongside Angela’s little white Renault 4CV.
    He took his old briefcase from the back of the car and began walking towards the back door, but he was accosted by a figure coming down from the garden behind. It was Jimmy Jenkins, their gardener and odd-job man, who sometimes added being their driver to his accomplishments. Jimmy had been inherited with the house, as he had been employed by Aunt Gladys for years and when Richard took over he seemed to have continued in his job by default.
    A well-known character in the area, Jimmy was about fifty, with a weather-beaten face decorated by a broken nose and a set of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. He always seemed to have half a Woodbine stuck to his lower lip, and Richard could never remember seeing him smoking a whole cigarette. His bristly grey hair was surmounted by a greasy cap perched over one eye – Jimmy habitually wore thick flannel shirts, over which were the braces that held up his corduroy trousers.
    â€˜I’ve run the cultivator over your patch again, doctor,’ he announced in an accent from the Forest of Dean, which lay just across the river. ‘Needs doing once more before you puts in them fancy plants. Best do it soon, before the cold weather comes.’
    The ‘patch’ that he rather sarcastically referred to was a quarter of an acre of the four acres of land that rose up the hill behind Garth House – and the ‘fancy plants’ were vines that Richard had ordered from a distant nursery. He had ambitions to start a small vineyard on the south-facing slope, as the climate of the sheltered Wye Valley was mild. Jimmy was contemptuous of the idea, trying to persuade his boss to grow strawberries instead, but Richard was adamant, even though he knew virtually nothing about horticulture.
    They spoke about his pet project for a few minutes before Richard could escape. ‘I’ve got to go to Cardiff in the morning, so could you give the car a wash tonight?’
    He declined Jimmy’s offer to drive him there, and as the man went off to fix up the hosepipe he went into the house.
    Angela was still at her bench, finishing off a batch of paternity tests. Richard put his head around the laboratory door to let her know that he was back.
    â€˜Did you find anything useful in Bristol?’ she asked, looking up with a pipette hovering over a rack of small tubes.
    He hefted his document case to show her, a battered crocodile-skin bag that he had bought years ago in Ceylon.
    â€˜I think so, but I’d like your opinion on it this evening. I’m going down to the library in Cardiff tomorrow to see if I can dig out anything else.’
    She nodded as she pulled another rack towards her.
    â€˜Fine. We’ll talk about it after supper.’
    He went off to his room down the passage and spent half an hour reading the mail and checking some reports that Moira had typed that day on post-mortems he had done at Chepstow and Monmouth. Then he pulled down a couple of textbooks from his shelves and began pursuing some of the matters that he had discovered in the medical school library in Bristol.
    Eventually, his partner banged on his door and called out ‘Supper!’ to call him into the kitchen. Here Moira had laid out two places on the big table and left a casserole for them in the warming oven of the Aga. Originally, she had been employed to do basic housekeeping, some cooking and a little typing, but as the business had increased, Moira had become overburdened. Now a buxom woman from the village came in for two hours each day to clean and