“Come in. You look cold.” Magnified eyes gazed through thick rimmed spectacles at the middle-aged woman on Mr. Gibbin’s doorstep.

“Oh, my boots are muddy,” the woman said, her black plastic mackintosh glinting raindrops.

“Mud is fine,” Mr. Gibbin told her and stood aside, his portly frame bowing slightly.

The woman looked over her shoulder at the rain pouring down into gravel puddles before stepping over the threshold of a Georgian house set in a field of dying sunflowers. “Oh my!” she let out a soft exclamation as her gaze fell upon tapestries dulled by centuries of dust that adorned four walls.

Mr. Gibbin smiled. “Lovely aren’t they?” She nodded but her expression didn’t seem to agree with his admiration for the depictions of dead animals, battles and executions. “Would you like a drink to warm you up?” She smiled, said she loved to but had many more houses to call upon. “So what can I do for you?” Mr. Gibbin asked.

“I’m collecting for Save Kingly Donkey Sanctuary,” came the reply and remembering her manners, said, “I’m Miss Spears, founder of the charity. We’re fighting to keep our site for rescued donkeys. The two fields are scheduled to be developed.” She held out a soft plump hand. Mr. Gibbins shook it. Miss Spears withdrew her hand, and looked at her fingers as if she’d been scalded. Then she took out an envelope from a plastic carrier bag that contained many others with donkeys stamped on the front. “You can donate anything you want,” she said. “It all adds up.”

Mr. Gibbin gazed at the envelope for a long moment. “I don’t like donkeys,” he broke the silence with a quiet reply.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry to have bothered you,” Miss Spears replied. “But we’re really desperate. Time is running out.”

“You’ve not bothered me, Miss Spears.” He smiled. “In fact, living here in this big old house can be quite lonely at times.” He paused and a grandfather clock ticked somewhere, it’s tick like a heavy tread.

“Yes, well,” Miss Spears uttered, her eyes coming to rest on a death scene depicted on a tapestry nearest to her.

“Ah! You’ve spotted it!” Mr. Gibbins sounded pleased.

Miss Spears looked back at him. “That scene, the one with the man thrusting a sword into a woman’s chest?” she asked in almost a whisper.

Mr. Gibbins nodded a bald head. “Can you see a donkey behind her?”

She grimaced. “A dead donkey and a man…” She gasped as if in sudden recognition. Turning, she ran for the solid front door.

“My tapestry isn’t finished, Miss Spears,” he told her.

Miss Spears stopped and, as she turned, Mr. Gibbins picked up an ornamental sword from an ancient oak chest. “Mr. Gibbins!”

“Miss Spears,” he said, taking fluid steps towards her. “Now, my dear, I must complete the tapestry.”

“No, please.” She pressed her back against the door, her hand fumbling for the latch. “I promise I’ll give all the money back.”

“There’s no need, my dear,” Mr. Gibbins told her in a gentle voice. “You can pay for your deeds in full at this very moment. Your partner will be dealt with later.”

Outside, heavy rain drowned out the woman’s last earthly scream. Beyond the field of dying sunflowers, Miss Spear’s accomplice, at the end of the drive, waited in a black transit van for his wife’s return with yet more money conned out of the elderly, the lonely and many naïve animal loving strangers.