This Private Plot by Alan Beechey

case to Simon Culpepper and the Warwickshire CID—a protocol that Mallard clearly shared, although the brief consultation with his uncle the previous day had at least led to today’s appointment.
    He returned to the room. Dr. Hyacinthe McCaw took the kettle and motioned him to sit down on the room’s only sofa. She was a short, sturdy woman, probably in her eighties, wearing a garment that was either a high-quality floral housecoat or a low-quality floral dress. She had a tangle of long, gray curls gathered loosely on top of her head that seemed in permanent danger of slipping off, whether or not they were actually rooted in her scalp. Her eyes were also gray and bright in a pleasant, remarkably unlined face.
    â€œI’m old enough to remember Uncle Dennis on the radio,” she said, looking over the text of the blackmailer’s letter. “A shame his life had to end this way. There was no suicide note?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIs it possible that the blackmailer got wind of the death and broke into Dennis’s home to remove such a note, in case it named him or her?”
    â€œThen he or she would have taken the blackmail letter, too, surely. It was open on the desk, in full view.”
    Dr. McCaw nodded and reached up to adjust the pile of hair, which was threatening to spill over into her face.
    â€œWell, since this is clearly the first message Dennis received, there’s precious little to identify the writer. In my opinion, this was composed by a professional, someone who’s blackmailed before. An amateur would get to the demands sooner. So I’d focus on the recipient. What can you tell me about the late Uncle Dennis?”
    â€œHe lived a blameless life for thirty years, on his own in a tiny Cotswold village,” Oliver said with a shrug.
    â€œWasn’t it Agatha Christie who said there was more evil in a country village than in the whole City of London?” She handed him a mug of tea.
    â€œThen Sir Arthur Conan Doyle beat her to it: ‘The lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.’ That’s Sherlock, in The Copper Beeches .”
    â€œYou are Tim’s nephew,” McCaw said, with a smile. “So what about the dreadful record of Synne?”
    â€œIf Dennis had misbehaved since he moved to the village, everyone would know. Especially my mother.”
    â€œThen you need to go back further. Much further, from the tone of the letter—‘history,’ ‘the past.’ What about this ‘family secret’ reference? Do you know much about his early life, his relatives?”
    â€œI’d imagine the older the secret, the deeper it must be buried.”
    â€œIt may not be as hard to uncover as you think. Foul deeds will rise. Blackmail victims are often the last people to realize their well-tended secrets are, in fact, common knowledge.”
    â€œThen if I’m looking into the dark recesses of Dennis Breedlove’s early days, where do you think I should point my flashlight?”
    Dr. McCaw thought for a moment.
    â€œSex,” she stated.
    â€œSex. Why?”
    â€œBecause whatever happened in the past still bothered Breedlove to this day, to put it mildly. And sex is the only thing the British fixate on forever. A life of crime? We love a reformed wrong ’un. Financial shenanigans? Name an MP who hasn’t fiddled his expenses but still parks his arse on the green leather of the House of Commons. Drugs, alcohol? Everybody adores a reformed hell-raiser. Shame, where is thy blush? No, for the British, sex and blackmail go together like the Lion and the Unicorn. You’ll always remember the front-page peccadilloes of John Profumo and that lovely Hugh Grant.”
    She took a sip of tea. “It doesn’t apply to the Europeans,” she continued. “They have an adult acceptance of sexual mores. The American