Ann Widdecombe’s death was shock enough – even at 78, I had thought she might last longer, tough bird that she was – but her murder is one of those events that rocks the nation. I knew her a little, on the back of a lunch here, an encounter there (one with the other murdered Catholic parliamentarian, David Amess), but when I reviewed her memoir in the Standard, she wrote to thank me for my observations. The book has long disappeared but one line in it stays in my memory: she said that as a single woman, she was always happy when she returned home at the end of the day and closed her door, and could do what she liked. She felt safe. She was not, in fact, necessarily single by choice – she had a boyfriend at Oxford, Colin, whom she had hoped to marry. But the issue is: if an elderly, highly respected single woman is not safe in her own home, then the country is gone to hell.

It is terrible to think of her last moments. We do not know about her murder, though the police have said it does not seem to have been politically motivated, but having met her I cannot imagine that she would not have resisted an intruder or an aggressor. She was brave in her life and her politics and I imagine she would have been brave to the end. Perhaps she paid a price for that. It’s horribly reminiscent of a Muriel Spark novel, where women meet with violence, no matter what their status or intelligence.

She was utterly uncompromising, which was why, impatient with the Church of England  –in which her own brother was an ordained clergyman – and its prevarications and evasions on matters of moral and theological significance, she became a Catholic. A character in a Maurice Baring novel described the appeal of the Church for converts as “the satisfaction of the soul in the presence of reality” and for her, the uncompromising approach of the Church to matters of faith and morals matched her own combative and logical personality.

Many people hated her for precisely this reason; she was absolutely plain where she stood on gay marriage, abortion, assisted suicide and women’s ordination, and the progressives really don’t like that. I recall that during her stint as prisons minister there was allegedly a proposal to handcuff prisoners when they were in maternity wards lest they abscond. It did seem like an inhumane policy – which it turned out she had not advocated – but what struck me was the sheer vitriol with which female Labour MPs attacked her.

They lined up to describe in disgusting detail the obstetrical realities of birth so as to bring it home to this intransigent, childless spinster that they were on the side of women and knew about these things. What it looked like to me was proof that feminists are only pro-women when they are the kind of women they can relate to; the non-conformists fall outside the female magic circle of support and relatability.

But – as ever – she was uncowed. Her friendship with the late David Amess, a Catholic MP murdered by an Islamist fundamentalist, was characteristic of them both. Naturally, when news of her death came out today, the haters took to social media to express their detestation of an antagonist; they look terrible now.

When I did have the chance to talk to her at length, I didn’t find I agreed with her about much. For instance, I thought the great offence of Margaret Thatcher was to do away with the concept of Sunday as a day of rest rather than a normal shopping day; Ann felt that change was inevitable. She had a curious voice – rather shrill – but exceptionally clear in expressing her very clear views. There are very few politicians now with quite that clarity and courage in expressing their principles, and her principles were iron ones. Yet she was fundamentally a Christian, and fundamentally charitable, under all the uncompromising rhetoric. Nigel Farage, the leader of the Reform party, of which she was immigration spokeswoman, said that she would “not have harmed a fly… She was kind to everybody. Frankly this was somebody who gave her life to public service, to fighting for the things that she believed in.” All true.

She also had a sense of humour; on the TV series where she improbably made her mark with the public, Strictly Come Dancing, she wanted to dance out to the tune of “Nellie the Elephant”, but it wasn’t allowed. She didn’t take herself seriously in a comic format; she kept her seriousness for her principles.

Her last gift to politics is, by virtue of her death, proving that law and order really is a problem for vulnerable elderly people living alone. All those who like to say impatiently that the British like to talk themselves down, that the country is really, underneath it all, at peace with itself, must come to terms with the brutal and violent death of a harmless woman. She made a point, even at the end.

She is with the Lord now, in Whom she placed her trust; He will not let her be confounded.

Requiescat in pace, Ann Widdecombe.

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