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Also published as *That Yew Tree's Shade*

The archdruid's yew, Yew Hill, Markshire, had provided cover in its day for a variety of activities, but never before had it been shelter for murder. Then one day, in the calm of Eastertide, murder was found; and overnight, as the police began their remorseless questioning, Yewbury was shocked out of admiring foliage.

Detective Superintendent Trimble had no eye for nature's extravagances in the face of human aberration. He had crossed paths with Francis Pettigrew before, to his sorrow. Now he established with grim satisfaction that the amiable, quick-witted lawyer had indeed been the last to see the victim, outlined starkly against the brow of the hill, alive. The victim, Trimble soon discovered, was held to be "an extraordinarily good woman," a solitary person with no particular friends and surely no enemies mad enough to kill her.

Trimble was convinced, however, that he would get to the bottom of the affair in short order—if only Pettigrew would leave the sleuthing to "us professionals." The trouble was that Trimble did not think of the Crippen affair, and Pettigrew did—and so actually the case was solved by a dead man . . . .