Haytor, where she lived, is a piece of Olde England sitting close to Exeter. I once biked a couple of summer weeks in those parts – the fragrant landscape from which Enid Blyton characters emerge.

Cycling is sweaty business. I recall pit-stops of scones with clotted cream and teapots with hand-knit cosies. During those breaks, none of my hosts asked an indiscreet question. What’s with the accent? The lycra? The aloneness?

It is an English quality I admire, that clear distinction between gossip and the things one might reasonably expect to know.

***

Britain’s most famous female politician since Thatcher made her home in Haytor on her retirement from Westminster politics. She called it ‘Widdecombe’s Rest’, an unremarkable and quite lovely property wedged between two country roads

Its wishful name was in keeping with the surrounding moors, and the clever old lady with a glint in her eye.

***

The most memorable trait of Ann Widdecombe, beyond her prodigious intelligence, was her voice.

She spoke consistently on her passaggio – that bridge between head and chest voice known to singers because its mastery leads to an accomplished sound.

Master it she never would. The result was a fluted yodel, slowing her cadence and inadvertently building her power. It was either beguiling or chiding, depending on your position.

Despite having left the British Parliament sixteen years ago, Ann Widdecombe insinuated herself into timely debates as part political advocate, part public intellectual.

Hours before news of her death, I had been listening to her arguments against assisted dying.

She laid out her conservative case with trademark clarity: euthanasia isn’t working yet in any country; it’s a slippery slope in the direction of death as a commodity service; and it’s impossible adequately to control any individual decision to terminate life.

Those words now take on a poignant air, spoken in the advancing foreshadow of her own demise.

***

Widdecombe’s great asset was her moral authority. One did not have to agree with her argument to trust its sincerity. And, in an age when many sing cover versions of other people’s melodies, her bolshy warble cut through.

An older lady should be the recipient of highest respect in every society. Our elders have fair expectation of support when they need it, and freedom when they want it.

Indeed, Widdecombe was quite the inspiration for any person entering the third act of life. After twenty-three years in Westminster, she famously tried her hand at writing fiction, tried her feet at Strictly Dancing, and tested her ego by embodying the Evil Queen on the panto stage.

In each, she was perfectly, Britishly aware of being part of the send-up.

***

But it is her thinking and actions regarding her faith which most drew me in.

Growing up in an Evangelical Anglican family, Widdecombe became unsettled by that church’s choice to reflect the present cultural moment, characterising it as an impulse for fashion over creed.

Ordaining women was her breaking point, and in 1992 she sprang from Anglia to the arms of the Bishop of Rome.

Principles are most valuable when difficult to defend.

Looking now at the arc of her public life, it seems that Widdecombe bickered with her beloved England, but never for the sake of it. She objected to abortion on demand; she fought against gay marriage; she lobbied for robust border protection. And when the electorate did not agree, she sucked it up and journeyed on.

Her legacy is invitation to thoughtful disagreement. One should first think, then present the best argument – holding firm, even in the face of receding tides.

***

I am appalled to contemplate the violence with which Ann Noreen Widdecombe met her end, at the age of 78.

The Devon and Cornwall Police made notable effort to communicate that the young man they arrested was white and British. But today he has been released and cleared of involvement.

It is not impolite to have every interest in knowing who murdered the whip-smart, pugnacious and irreverent Ms Widdecombe, and exactly why. A part of Olde England depends on the answer.

Her tragic death, in the meadowsweet moors of Devon, is a crime against us all.

May she rest in peace.