

SKIDDLETHORPE  
AND OTHER STORIES

by

PETER D. WILSON

### Monthly entries in the 2012 Daily Telegraph competition  
for pieces of up to 2000 words

Copyright Peter D. Wilson

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Disclaimer

The content of these stories is fiction, and apart from some autobiographical material adapted as background to "Svetlana", any resemblance to persons, events or situations in past or present reality is coincidental.
CONTENTS

Tiger

Alpine Assignment

The Road Taken

Skiddlethorpe

Uneasy Assassin

Command Performance

Svetlana

Family Reunion

Set a Thief ...

Fantasy

A Harmless Deception

Fowler's Cave

About the author

Cover photograph: Linn of Tummel, late summer 2012
TIGER

Tom raced down the garden, across the sunken lane and up into the meadow beyond, towards a pond where he had often fished unsuccessfully for newts and tadpoles. After a long spell of miserable weather it was a gorgeous spring day with brilliant sunshine, a few white clouds, and a breeze just strong enough to blow the cobwebs away without being uncomfortable - at least, not to a healthy, active young lad. However, a clump of gorse and hawthorn a couple of hundred yards away seemed to be blowing about more than the wind seemed to warrant, even in the stronger gusts, and he wondered why. Could there be something moving within it? He had occasionally seen a fox thereabouts, but if an animal was indeed responsible it must have been of a much bigger kind. As he went closer to look, the disturbance seemed to shift, and a moment later the puzzle resolved itself when out sprang a tiger.

"What a splendid animal," he thought, not registering the oddity of the situation. It slowly surveyed the surroundings, spotted Tom and paced majestically towards him. For some reason he didn't run. Then out came another tiger; the first looked towards it, and a silent conversation seemed to pass between them. The second turned its head, uttered a low sound, and a cub emerged cautiously from the thicket. It too looked around, then ran to its mother who tapped it gently with a paw and started to lick stray tufts of fur into place.

The cub soon had enough of this, wriggled free from the restraining paw and ran up to Tom, rubbed against his ankle and rolled over, looking up expectantly. The requirement was obvious, and Tom duly crouched to rub its chest while the parents looked on benignly. When he thought duty satisfied, he would have stood up, but the cub clasped his hand in its paws and clearly wanted more. At last the incongruity struck him: tigers don't do this. Come to think of it, they had no business to be there at all. The wind had risen with a chilly edge, and looking up, he realised that without his noticing, the clouds had spread into a complete canopy while the older tigers were growing hazy and grey. The cub under his hand was curiously still.

A snore startled him and he jerked awake. The cat on his knee stirred lazily and yawned, stretching out a paw and turning to look directly at him with the appearance of a question; Flora had always seemed almost human. With a shock, Tom noticed for the first time how prominent among the wrinkles were the veins of the hand resting on her fur. The years that had passed over him so lightly were now taking effect, and however reluctantly, he had to recognise that he was definitely getting on. For his age he was still remarkably fit, and he gratefully recognised his good fortune there, but the signs of deterioration - increasingly frequent lapses of memory, silly mistakes in familiar activities - had already caused him some anxiety. His thoughts often ran now to possible futures, none of them very encouraging, as well as to events in the past; he sometimes wondered what might be the connections between them. What premonition or lurking memory, for instance, could have prompted that curious dream about tigers?

*****

Tom and Diana had known each other from childhood, and in their mid-teens had become quite close friends. Without being unsociable they gradually came to spend more time together, apart from the rest of their circle. They generally ignored knowing looks from the others, and if they were aware of speculation among their relations about an eventual marriage they did nothing either to encourage or squash it. Most of the time they didn't even think about the possibility. However, this was in the early1950s and in due course Tom had to do his National Service, which apart from brief spells of leave during training kept him well away from home for two years.

Diana was not one to go into purdah and even if he had thought their relationship anything like close enough to justify it, he knew better than to suggest restricting her social life. They wrote to each other often at first, but the frequency gradually tailed off, and so he was disappointed rather than heartbroken to learn halfway through his time that she was pregnant. There was no question about the father. Tom had met him a few times and formed a good impression; George was a decent, conscientious man in his mid-twenties, who took his responsibilities seriously. Tom was not able to attend their wedding, but sent the best gift he could manage and genuinely wished them well.

He wished in vain. Julie proved to be a delicate and fractious child, impatient with the illnesses that needed much more than usual attention and greatly restricted family activities. Then George had an accident at work that left him brain-damaged and house-bound, with disastrous effects on his character. The following years were very hard for Diana, with George increasingly bitter and querulous over his disabilities, imagined slights from his diminishing circle of friends and her inadequate (in his eyes) attention to him. She felt that he might have some justification there, but could do little about it, with more than enough on her hands dealing with the child while earning enough to keep the family out of even greater difficulties.

Tom meanwhile had completed an engineering course with reasonable credit and found a good, steady if not particularly lucrative job. He discreetly did as much as he could to help, although he had to be very careful since George had become excessively jealous of other male contacts and gave more and more venomous expression to his suspicions. Often Tom could do little more than dry Diana's tears over the latest outburst, and on finding out about it through a well-meaning neighbour's thoughtless chatter, George angrily forbade even that. She didn't always obey, but the deceptions involved troubled her conscience and made her rather irritable.

They were not entirely successful, either, and George grew more disagreeable than ever. After an especially vehement row, she finally snapped and stormed out with Julie to take refuge with her mother. Mavis was sympathetic and agreed that the child could stay with her at least for the night, but insisted that Diana should return home straight away before more lasting damage was done. There, she found the place silent, the bathroom door locked, and when it was forced, George dead inside.

The suicide eased Diana's practical burden, but left her guilt-ridden by the idea that she had precipitated it, and moreover that the vicious accusations in George's final despairing note might have had some substance in her mind if not in reality. Tom tried to reassure her that unless encouraged, such stray thoughts - if indeed she had any \- were almost inevitable and blameless, but she couldn't convince herself that they would have been altogether unwelcome. In any case, there was no getting away from a likely connection between the row and what followed, and she could always imagine that with greater patience she might have stuck out the situation long enough for it to pass. She was grateful for Tom's attempts to cheer her up, but although reluctant to tell him so felt that they didn't really help, in fact making her question her own innocence even more. He realised that something beyond his understanding was amiss, but lacked the insight to identify it.

However, he was a patient man and waited nearly two years before gently reminding Diana that she didn't need to remain a widow indefinitely. Apart from any other consideration, Julie needed a father, someone to play with her, take her to concerts and exhibitions and the like. "But you do that already," she pointed out.

"Well, yes, it's all right now, but when she's a bit older ..."

"What?"

"Well, it could get a bit awkward."

"I think that's a bridge we can cross when we come to it."

He was in some ways older than his generation, too reserved to mention other reasons for wanting to marry, and the occasion passed. He never found the nerve to raise the subject again, but feeling himself somehow bound was reluctant to consider looking elsewhere. Half-hearted attempts by his friends to introduce other potential partners came to nothing, and so he became accepted as a confirmed bachelor.

The passing years made Julie no easier to manage, and indeed she came to object as a matter of course to everything that had to be done for her or by her. She had a particular dislike of visiting the dentist in town - nothing unusual about that, of course, except in its intensity - and made a tremendous fuss when a few fillings were needed. Diana had practically to drag her across the road, and Julie resisted strongly. Diana, scolding that Julie was no longer a baby and needed to act her age, yanked her arm fiercely; Julie pulled free, so that Diana lost her balance and staggered backwards from behind the bus into the path of a car. The driver swerved but had no chance to avoid her completely; she fell, struck her head on a kerbstone, and despite all efforts to revive her never regained consciousness.

Tom considered the possibility of adopting Julie, but a bachelor household would not have been good for her even if it were permitted. She was placed with foster-parents, who were conscientious and kindly in their way though a little on the severe side. Perhaps that was what Julie needed. Tom visited with little gifts, not that they were very graciously received, and took her out for excursions when the opportunity offered.

One that she did appreciate was to a wild-life park, and she didn't seem to tire of it on repeated visits. She was particularly fascinated by a pair of tigers, and thrilled when one of the attendants told her that cubs were on the way. She had to go every week to ask about the mother's condition, and after the birth about the cubs' progress, until they were eventually allowed out on display and she could see for herself. On these occasions she was almost friendly, and Tom began to feel that they getting into a more comfortable situation.

However, the Graingers knew of placings for reasons much less innocent than being orphaned, and looked on Tom with some suspicion. Once Julie reached her teens they made it clear that they thought his attentions no longer appropriate. Although bitterly disappointed he understood the good intention behind the ban, and there was no objection to his writing occasionally to her although he suspected some surreptitious censorship. The letters were never answered, or at least no reply ever reached him, and eventually he had to accept that he would probably hear no more from her.

*****

Tom felt his throat dry and fancied a cup of tea, but while he was in the kitchen the doorbell rang. He answered it to find a middle-aged woman with a young child clutching a basket; "Tom?" she said, and after moment he recognised her.

"Julie! Of all people! Do come in. I've just put the kettle on."

Julie introduced the child as her granddaughter Clare, and explained that they had been nearby collecting a kitten for her. It was getting a little restive, and that accounted for Flora's interest in the basket; Tom thought it safe enough to try introducing the two. After some hesitation, the kitten emerged, a tabby with white bib and socks. It cowered before Flora who however licked its head in a motherly way, evidently calming it, and they seemed likely to be friendly enough. "What's it's name?" asked Tom.

It was Clare who answered. "Tiger, of course."

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**ALPINE ASSIGNMENT**

Martin cursed the storm clouds gathering ahead. Already the summit of the pass was blotted out, and the murk was spreading. At this time of year that would inevitably mean a heavy snowfall, and although the road would be cleared as soon as humanly possible afterwards, it would almost certainly be blocked tonight, at least as far down as the Kaiserkrone and probably a great deal further. He must get there before that happened, as there was nowhere else to shelter on this side. Almost unconsciously he increased speed as much as the road and the car would allow.

The summons had come two days earlier. "Kaiserkrone, evening 18th. Vital. Confirm." In more clement seasons they had often stayed at the inn (despite the grandiose title, he would hardly call it a hotel), but he wondered what had happened to make Weston call a meeting there so urgently at the start of winter. However, he was given to sudden impulses and cryptic commands that had to be obeyed instantly, so Martin had swallowed his annoyance and hastily cancelled his own arrangements for that day plus a couple afterwards, hoping that whatever Weston wanted would take no longer. He wondered who else might be involved, as such an out-of-the-way rendezvous suggested that someone would be coming from the opposite direction. No chance of that tonight, thought Martin, unless the contact had already arrived or at least crossed the pass.

The sky darkened overhead and a few flakes of snow began to fall. For some reason Martin thought of "Excelsior!", or rather the parody of the original Longfellow piece in which the idiot youth bore, 'mid snow and ice, not the banner with a strange device but a cage full of performing mice. The voice in his head with a habit of making disconcerting comments startled him now with an uncomfortable notion: was he himself one of Weston's mice? The man was undoubtedly a control freak, and Martin by no means the only performer dancing to his often nefarious tune.

He wondered how many others had come to be in this situation, four that he knew and probably several more. One, he believed, a senior cleric, had been saved from what threatened to become a particularly damaging scandal by Weston's pressure on the cuckolded husband. Another, the chief accountant of a company in Weston's portfolio, had been caught with his hand in the till, and the decision not to prosecute had aroused much speculation; evidently he had talents that were too valuable to lose, or more likely information too dangerous to be let loose.

For Martin himself it was straightforward and perfectly respectable. Years before, Weston had saved his father from a more than usually distressing bankruptcy and thereafter played rather heavily on their gratitude, although in his case for no obviously discreditable purpose. It suddenly occurred to him that since his father's death, the debt must have been just about paid off by his own services, and perhaps it was time to start standing up rather more for himself. He was pondering this when having to correct a slide on a sharp bend brought his mind sharply back to the task immediately in hand: staying on the road until he reached the inn.

The snowfall continued but remained light, and the wind was blowing it off the road surface. There would obviously be serious drifting later on, but for the time being there was no real problem. Nevertheless Martin was greatly relieved when the lights of the inn came in sight. One other car was already there, not one he recognised but then Weston would probably have flown in and hired it at the airport.

The cold hit him as he emerged from the car and he paused only to grab his overnight bag before heading for the door. Inside, the open fire was a welcome sight with a well-filled basket of logs beside it, the light of the flames glinting on the gilt of the imperial crowned figure that gave the place its name. There was no one in sight, but a few seconds after he rang the bell at the reception desk Lisl Gertner appeared. "Ah, guten Abend, Herr Barratt. It is good to see you again; I was afraid you might have difficulty getting here."

"Thank you, Lisl. No, I was a bit worried myself, but I've made it. It's a good thing I was no later, though; the storm looks serious."

"Yes, I fear it will be. Have you any luggage to bring in?"

"Not just now, thank you, all I need is here. Is that Mr. Weston's car outside?"

Lisl seemed surprised. "No. You were expecting him?"

The question came as a shock. "Why yes, that's why I'm here."

"That is very strange." She went through the motions of checking her reservation list. "No, there is nothing about him for tonight or any other time."

"It's possible he might be using another name. He does, sometimes – for legitimate reasons, of course."

"Hmm. We have only one other reservation for tonight, and I do not think there could be any mistake there."

"He sometimes sends a deputy ..."

At that moment a tall, rather attractive blonde came from the stairs and approached the desk.

"Has my luggage been brought in yet?"

"I am sorry, Miss Vishinskaya, Karl is still busy; he had to fix a window before the storm gets here, but I will make sure he brings your case as soon as possible."

The blonde looked displeased, and Martin saw a chance. "Can I be any help?"

Lisl demurred, but clearly would welcome it. "I'm afraid Karl may be some time ..."

"Is your car locked, Miss Vish ...

"Yes, but ..."

Lisl had already produced the key from the desk drawer. "Thank you, Lisl. There are two cases but I need only one of them tonight; it's on the back seat." Martin evidently looked surprised, and the woman smiled ruefully. "I once slid backwards into a snowdrift, so now I make sure that everything essential is to hand."

"I see. But are you sure you wouldn't like the other as well, in case it's more difficult later on?"

"It's very kind of you, but no, thank you. I may be leaving in the morning."

Lisl pointed out that it was very unlikely to be possible; by mid day, perhaps, but almost certainly not earlier. The woman was clearly not troubled by that. "Mid day will be early enough, if necessary."

Outside, Martin found that the snow was falling more heavily and already building up against obstructions to the wind. Sometimes, for security reasons, Weston would arrive for a meeting at the last minute and without booking ahead, but if he was planning anything of the sort this time he had better be quick about it. Martin peered down towards the valley, without much hope as visibility was already dwindling, and indeed he saw nothing.

He retrieved the case from the back seat, quite a small one, and he wondered if despite the owner's disavowal she might like to have the other as well, then decided that she might have positive reasons for leaving it where it was and abandoned the idea, making sure to lock the car. As an afterthought he took the case from his own. A sudden gust of wind caught him off balance and he staggered a bit, then had something of a struggle against it back to the door. Lisl was standing ready to open it quickly and close it behind him, then excused herself and returned to her duties behind the scenes.

The blonde seemed duly grateful. "Thank you, that's very kind of you, Mr. ...?

"Barratt – Martin Barratt." He couldn't quite give it the right intonation as for Bond, James Bond, but at least it didn't come out in a squeak as on one occasion in his adolescence when he had tried to impress.

"Olga Vishinskaya," the girl responded, and they shook hands. Martin apologised for his own's being chilled and they moved to seats by the fire where he warmed them. Girl? he thought; no, probably mid-thirties. "Still much too young for you," came the voice in his head. "Get lost," he told it.

"Vishinskaya," he mused aloud. "Not by any chance related to – what was his name? – Andrei Vishinsky?"

Olga beamed. "You remember him still?"

"Not personally. But my grandfather used to work in the diplomatic service, back in the 1940s and'50s. I don't suppose he was ever in a position to meet your Foreign Minister, but he heard a lot about him. As he told it, I'm afraid it mostly concerned his always saying no."

"Yes, he did have that reputation, I believe. He was a cousin of my grandfather – or was it great-grandfather? I get tangled up in the generations."

"Well, I'm certainly pleased to have met his great-niece or whatever the relationship may be. It's more of a distinction than I'm ever likely to achieve in any other way."

Olga looked at him quizzically. "So you like to flatter? I must remember that. And just in case you are getting any ideas – " (at least she smiled at this) – "I should tell you that I too have a reputation for always saying no."

At that point Lisl returned with an apology for interrupting. "We generally serve dinner at seven. Would that suit you? If you like I could bring you the menu with some coffee and torte now."

Olga was quite happy with that, and Martin agreed. Lisl went off to make arrangements. Martin thought about his next move.

"Where were we? Oh, yes. I must be careful, then. But you don't seem unsociable yourself; you wouldn't want me to eat alone, would you?"

Olga laughed. "I see. Well, to be consistent, I have to say no, don't I?"

She proved a congenial dining companion and Martin felt cautiously optimistic, despite her declared reputation, as they returned to the fireside for coffee afterwards. While they were talking, Lisl approached in some agitation. "Excuse me, Herr Barratt, but I have just heard part of a news item about a serious accident apparently involving an English businessman, Charles Weston. Could that be your friend?"

"It's possible. Was there anything else about it?"

"No, that was all I caught. Maybe there will be something in a later bulletin."

At that, Olga finished topping up Martin's coffee and excused herself to make a telephone call, and on returning said that she must speak to Martin in private. "Where?"

"It will be best in your room."

That suited him well enough, although he had some difficulty with the key and wondered if perhaps he had taken too much of the wine with the meal. He felt surprisingly drowsy and had to apologise for yawning, hoping that the rest of the evening was not going to be a dreadful anticlimax. "Now, what's this about?"

"Not what you may think, I'm afraid. You'd better sit down. I've just been speaking to friends who might know something about this accident."

"Yes?"

"It is your Charles Weston who was involved."

"Is he all right?"

"He had enemies, you know. He's dead, with all his known associates, except one."

"Who's that?"

"You, Martin."

"Well, that lets me off the hook. I can't say I'm particularly sorry."

"Oh. So perhaps our meeting might not have been necessary."

"You mean it was arranged?

"Yes. I am sorry; I have enjoyed your company. But don't worry about it."

He yawned again. "Sorry. What are you talking about?"

She gently stroked his forehead. "Relax, Martin. You are feeling sleepy. Relax ... relax ... That's better. Are you comfortable now?"

"Yes, very, thank you." He was rapidly drifting off.

"Good. Sleep, now. In the morning you will not awake – something in your coffee, but it will look like natural causes. So 'Sweet dreams', isn't that the wish? Good night, Martin."

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**THE ROAD TAKEN**

Where did that road lead to? Bob had always taken the newer carriageway cutting diagonally across the hillside, with a bridge over the gully where a minor stream plunged in a cascade of waterfalls towards the patchwork of fields on the level plain, but the old road was still there, snaking away to the left before the start of the climb and into a wooded area where it was not visible from above. Maybe it just petered out, very probably in fact since there was no direction sign at the junction and no visible continuation beyond the wood, although at one time it must have gone on to reach the higher ground by a completely different route. Nevertheless, Bob this time felt an almost irresistible urge to investigate.

Always before, at the start of his two weeks' leave, he had hurried on to be with his family as quickly as possible. But now Marjorie was dead, the children taken into care with unknown foster parents, and there was nothing but the empty house awaiting him. There was no reason why he should resist that urge. Almost automatically, as he reached the junction, the car veered on to the older route.

The first bend in it, not by any means severe, told him that he had to slow down. It was followed by several more even gentler, but he reminded himself that there was no need to hurry and stuck to his calmer pace. For the first mile or so the road wound through the haphazard pattern of fields bounded by rather untidy hedges as he had often noted from the hillside. There was nothing desperately wrong with them, just a general air of slight neglect that he found depressing. Then, rounding a bend sharper than usual, he felt there was something different. What it might be escaped him for a while, but then he realised that the hedge on the left was properly laid. He stopped for a moment to examine it.

It was years since he had seen anything of the sort, and the discovery lifted his spirits sharply. The work had evidently been done years before, but a little further on there was a much newer stretch and he wondered hopefully if the craft might still be practised here. Sure enough, after a few more twists in the road, he came across a couple of farm hands busily engaged in it. The start of a track on the right widened to a space where he could park without causing obstruction.

"Mind if I watch?" he called to the men.

"Nay, tha'll not bother us," the elder replied, a wiry, weather-beaten character with ill-kempt grey hair; Bob guessed him to be about seventy. He carried on notching the pleachers while the other, possibly his son, wove them together to make a strong barrier.

Bob strolled across and admired the work. "This really brings back memories. I haven't seen hedge-laying since I was a child," he remarked, and the man nodded.

"Aye, there's none but us still doing it round here. Other folks are in too much of a rush."

Bob made some comment about being glad to see the tradition being handed on. That memory of childhood suddenly came into sharp focus: a broad path between a hawthorn hedge on the left and a tiny stream to the right, never more than a foot wide; often he had tried to dam it with pebbles, always breached and washed away before the water rose more than an inch or two. Curiously he had no recollection, if he had ever known, of where it came from or where it went. Beyond the hedge a series of fields rose more and more steeply towards a crest along which a tarmac road was laid years later. The hedge ended at the start of the last field before a worked-out clay pit where he often played around the limestone outcrops. On his way from school he might strike diagonally across that field or, depending on what the cows were doing, continue to the rickety fence along the edge of the quarry and climb the steep, narrow path there.

On just one occasion Bob had come across a hedging job in progress and been fascinated by it. Thinking back, he suddenly wondered when that experience could have been. There were only two or three years when it might have been possible, between his family's moving to the house on the ridge and his own going on from primary to grammar school on the other side of the town.

It was there that he had met Marjorie. They had not been friends at first, far from it; however, years later when they were leading opposing sides in a school debate, Marjorie made a point that Bob tried to rubbish but later felt deserved discussing privately with her. One thing led to another and in their early twenties they married.

After the usual ups and downs things seemed to be going pretty well until the arrival of a second child, inconveniently soon after the first, put a strain on their finances. Bob very reluctantly took a new job, much more lucrative than before but requiring him to work abroad between spells of home leave. It was a dreadful strain, only made bearable by necessity and the thought that the three-year contract should set them up for the foreseeable future.

At a necessary stop on his way home for the last spell of leave, he had bumped into an old friend who insisted on dragging him along to a stag-night party. Bob was a conscientiously moderate drinker and confined himself, as he thought, to a couple of halves before leaving as soon as he decently could, but some fool had heavily spiked them and he landed home very much worse for wear. There he found Marjorie in what his confused mind mistook to be a compromising situation with a neighbour, and went berserk. The flash of the hedger's billhook brought back the terrible mental image of Marjorie lying bleeding on the floor and the neighbour trying frantically to wrest a heavy kitchen knife from his hand.

The hedger's "Are you all right?" shook him from his reverie. He came to himself shaking like a leaf and very clearly not all right, but he assured the man that it was just a passing moment and he would be fit enough in a couple of minutes. The two helped him back to the car and into the driving seat. As an afterthought the older man took the ignition key from the switch and put it on the passenger seat; it wasn't much of a precaution, but Bob would at least need enough physical coordination to replace it before he could drive.

In fact the emotional turmoil had tired him and he dozed. When he awoke about an hour later, the hedgers had finished their job and departed. He noticed with appreciation of their forethought where the key had been put, but felt rather stiff and decided to take a walk before driving on; it was painful at first, but a few dozen paces cleared the worst of it. Round the next bend he found the farmhouse and considered calling in with his thanks, but decided it might add to the inconvenience he had already caused and instead carried on. Beyond it the tarmac had ceased to be maintained, as he had suspected it eventually might, and the road quickly degenerated into an unpaved track.

It was evidently still used for light traffic, continuing about eight feet wide with quite a good firm surface. On the right was a little stream, and Bob could not resist trying the effect of a few pebbles as a primitive dam; it burst almost immediately. The hedge on the left was tall and straggling, and as he went on, through it he caught glimpses of fields rising more and more steeply to a crest that he hadn't noticed from the new road, but perhaps the relief of the terrain was less obvious from that height. After perhaps half a mile the hedge ended, and a couple of hundred yards further a rickety fence came down from the left to the edge of the track.

For some reason Bob decided to follow that rather than continue along the level. There was not really a path, just a narrow worn trail where many feet had gone along close by the fence, but at least it showed that there was a destination to be expected. It soon came to the lip of an old quarry where the worked-out surface had been levelled and a cluster of houses built, with an access road leading off to the right apparently to meet the line of the track a little further on. At the top of the field, he found there was a choice of direction: to the right was a broad track between the hedge bounding the quarry site and the back gardens of a row of houses, ahead was a narrow but paved footpath to the road on to which they fronted. He chose the track.

The gardens were generally well kept, with a couple ending in hard standing for a car. He soon came to the drive that allowed access from the road. On the near corner a wire fence was festooned with bindweed and woody nightshade; he stopped to admire the natural conjunction of extravagant white trumpets, probed by butterflies, alongside the much smaller, vivid yellow and purple flowers and waxy red berries of the nightshade.

On the other side his mother finished hanging out washing on the clothes line, and picking up the empty basket noticed that he was there. "Thank goodness. Come along, Bob, wherever have you been? I was getting quite worried."

"Sorry, Mum, I was watching some men fixing the hedge. I'd never seen that before. Sorry"

"Well, never mind that. Come and get your tea while it's still worth eating."

Inside, he dumped his jacket and after the ritual reminder was about to wash his hands when a sudden clamour startled him. The scene was blotted out, he found himself somehow constrained and a kind of panic seized him until he realised that the bed sheet was over his head, trapped beneath his shoulder and making it awkward to reach out and silence the alarm. At last he managed it.

Realising the time he was shocked. Then he remembered something else and groaned "Oh, hell! I'd forgotten."

Marjorie, entering the bedroom, asked what was the matter. "I forgot it was the kids' school outing today."

"Stop fretting, it's all right. I got everything ready last night, and packed them off in plenty of time."

"Thank goodness. But why ever didn't you wake me?"

"You had such a bad night, tossing and turning, that I set the alarm for an hour later and let you sleep on."

"I wish you hadn't. I had a dreadful nightmare."

"Well, I wasn't to know that. But now we can have a leisurely breakfast by ourselves for once."

Bob dressed himself quickly and sat at the table, noticing an envelope under his side plate. "What's this?"

"No idea. But there's one way to find out. No, not that knife - it's got marmalade on it."

Choosing another he slit the envelope and scanned the contents. "Good lord!"

"What is it?"

"It's from Turnbulls."

"I could see that. Go on!"

"It's the damnedest thing – they want me to take on a three-year job in Angola."

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**SKIDDLETHORPE**

I don't suppose you've ever heard of Skiddlethorpe. It isn't much of a place, especially since the decline in the wool industry: just a cluster of cottages, a few outlying farms, a pub, and a tiny church alongside the River Skiddle at a point where a rough path from nowhere in particular to somewhere even less distinguished crosses the stream by an ancient hump-backed bridge. It was supposedly built in the fourteenth century by monks from St. Cyrus's abbey on instructions given in an apparition of the Virgin Mary to one Hannah Goodenough, much to the amusement of neighbours familiar with her way of seeing things that weren't there, especially on nights of celebration. However, they kept quiet about that; they weren't going to spoil the chance of being saved from wet feet in the winter spates, and neither were the folks from Nip and Seld who passed that way on their monthly sessions of competitive games in their alternating hostelries.

What those games might have been in the distant past is unknown, although according to a document of 1520 in the British Library a wandering preacher complained bitterly of a devotion to the sport of "tapgroat" that kept men away from Sabbath worship. Its nature is uncertain, although the recent discovery of a polished board ruled with parallel lines and of about that age suggests an obvious possibility. Latterly the contest has been a straightforward darts match between teams of three on the second Sunday, in the afternoon to avoid the hazards of walking in the dark during the winter.

That preacher was a rarity. For most of history, Skiddledale has been almost completely isolated from the outside world. Visitors were practically unknown, although it was rumoured that once in 1804 William Wordsworth wandered in and out again without leaving much impression on either himself or the locality. The Domesday Book makes no mention of it, while the Ordnance Survey got the name of the settlement wrong and the river does not appear at all on most maps. Again, until quite recently it was rare for inhabitants to venture far outside the valley except in times of particular hardship, and those who left for more than a visit to market never returned. A general ignorance of worldly affairs thus remained undisturbed and unlamented.

In the mid-nineteenth century, however, a metalled road was built, ostensibly to bring the benefits of modern civilisation but suspected to be in reality more to do with taxation. That, according to valley opinion, was when the rot set in.

The rot, I regret to say, took the bodily form of my great-great- ... -grandfather Nathaniel, fleeing north after a scandalous affair with the wife of a Nonconformist minister who had a considerable following among the rougher labourers as well as the manufacturing classes. For a time he stayed at the inn of a nearby town, but when the fuss failed to die down as he had hoped, he looked around for somewhere to settle more or less permanently. The isolation of Skiddledale suited him very well; he found an unclaimed plot of rocky land above the flood line beside the river, cleared the bracken and built a house, unremarkable by urban standards but palatial to the locals. Conveniently, a tributary stream fed by a never-failing spring gave a reliable supply of water, soon piped directly from the spring itself. In later years it also powered a succession of electric generators as more and more aids to contemporary living were installed.

Nathaniel brought in his own servants, but few of them could stand the isolation for long and he tried to hire local staff. Unfortunately for him the internal economy of the valley ran largely on a barter system and he had nothing to offer but money, in amounts too great to be accommodated on the slate in the pub that for generations had served as an accounting system for the community. That was a problem he had never met before nor even imagined. Realising however that people did go outside to market, he hit upon the idea of making residence slightly more attractive to his own people by bringing the market, enhanced with a greater variety of stock, to the valley itself.

The Skiddledalers, though deeply reserved with strangers ("'E keeps hisself to hisself" was high praise), were not ill-disposed towards off-comers who had occasionally arrived for reasons into which no one ever inquired, however peculiar their ways might be so long as they caused no trouble and put on no airs. Nathaniel and his small remaining menage seemed to fit in quite well. Simon Rumbold, an elderly and rather morose widowed groom who liked a modest tipple, had made a habit of visiting the pub and over the first six months earned acceptance by confining his greetings to a simple nod and saying hardly anything to anyone apart from his orders and a general gruff "G'night" on leaving. It was his task to visit the market for supplies, and Nathaniel commissioned him to observe discretely what other people from the valley were buying.

Then there was the matter of premises. In the valley's climate the idea of a regular open-air market for anything but farm produce would have been ludicrous, and while Nathaniel could well afford to build from scratch, there was no suitable site available. However, Ezekiel Farley had a large dilapidated barn, housing odd bits of broken equipment that he had never got round to fixing but might come in useful some time, close to where the metalled road ran out; to say it terminated would give an altogether too positive impression. It was not a picturesque ruin, just a mess, and Nathaniel had often thought his view down the valley would be greatly improved if it were to collapse altogether. Another possibility now presented itself. He visited Farley with a proposal to put the building into good order in return for permission to maintain and use it as he wished for as long as he wished, with no further obligation on either side afterwards. In a less innocent community Farley might have had doubts, but he could see no objection and the two shook hands on the deal; that was as close to a legal contract as the Skiddledalers ever came. Nathaniel nevertheless made a note of the terms for his own records.

The building work went slowly and occupied the best part of a year, with a break during the winter, and Farley came in for a good deal of muttered criticism for the disturbance. It didn't bother him. At the end of it there was a capacious structure still in keeping with other buildings around though a great deal better finished, fitted internally with store rooms and sales counters, and outside over the door a board inscribed "SKIDDLEDALE EMPORIUM" in clear but tastefully subdued lettering. Being at best barely literate, most of the villagers had no idea what it meant but agreed that it looked very fine.

In the following days they were at first puzzled and then worried by a succession of wagons bringing large packing cases that were carried inside with considerable effort and shortly afterwards brought out evidently empty to be taken away. Then there were alarming stories of Nathaniel's having been closeted in long private conversations with Harry Birtwhistle, the innkeeper. A rumour started about supposed plans to transform the pub beyond recognition, an idea so horrifying as to prompt a delegation of protest. Harry hastily assured them that nothing of the sort was in the wind; plans were being made, to be sure, but the character of the pub was sacrosanct (I paraphrase, of course).

The scheme eventually turned out to be for a grand opening of the new store with the monthly contest between Nip and Seld forming the principal event. Since at that time different games were played in the two regular locations, and choosing either one for this occasion would obviously favour its usual host community, something different was needed, and a committee comprising Nathaniel himself, Ezekiel Farley and Harry Birtwhistle as chairman was set up to consider what it might be. In order to provide a real challenge for the contestants as well as entertainment for spectators, the decision was to have a competition in story-telling: teams of three as usual, with each member to have up to five minutes – there was little fear of over-running. Scoring was to be by the committee with Harry having the final say in case of disagreement. As a prize Nathaniel donated a bottle of his best cognac; despite comments that it would be wasted on Skiddledalers, he insisted that anything less would be an insult to a community that had provided him with a refuge when he most needed it.

Come the day, so many people turned up that the pub could not accommodate them all, so a makeshift stage was set up in the store, which fortunately had been arranged with the counters around the edge of the main hall leaving a large clear area for the gossiping that was an essential feature of any market. As it was a Sunday there could be no question of actual trading, but the range of goods was set out and Nathaniel had arranged for a small promotional gift to everyone who turned up. Local unfamiliarity with cash trading was the cause of the venture, so prices were set out in terms of commodities, and if anyone noticed that a stone of potatoes cost ten pounds of carrots while a stone of carrots cost two of potatoes, he didn't mention it. Nathaniel considered the margin very reasonable.

Someone had pointed out that half an hour of actual story-telling was not really quite enough, so it was arranged that a local team, not actually competing, would provide a "friendly" supplement. Each team was given a store room for final rehearsals before the presentation. There would be three rounds with Skiddlethorpe last in each, and a pause for refreshments between them. I shouldn't attempt to reproduce most of the actual stories even if they had all been recorded, as the Skiddledale dialect is fairly impenetrable and a translation into standard colloquial English would probably fall flat as a pancake, but the last one from the local team is an exception. "Well, we've heard the others, and I'm sure we've all enjoyed them. Mine is very short, but the funniest of the lot. While all that was going on, we have drunk the brandy."

And it was true; no one had noticed before, but the bottle had disappeared. There was uproar, threatening to develop into a nasty scrimmage until Nathaniel calmed it by bellowing "Quiet, please," and explaining that he had sent Simon to fetch a replacement. Remaining resentments were sidetracked when young Jennie Hardcastle suddenly went into labour and was rushed into a side room while various matrons scurried around doing what was necessary.

Nathaniel's asking whether the father was there produced an embarrassed silence. All anyone knew was that it was someone outside the valley, and Jennie wouldn't give his name; she might not know it herself. Harry said that they were anxious to find one as Jennie's father would not have his own attached to the bastard, and a sudden idea occurred to him: would Nathaniel, familiar with the outside world, suggest one that might be suitable?

While Nathaniel was pondering another diversion arose. A shepherd from the valley head shoved his way through the crowd and complained that all the price lists were in terms of arable produce: how much was a bale of wool worth? "Wool worth?" muttered Nathaniel, sotto voce in irritation with the distraction, but it was picked up.

Young Johnny thrived, eventually emigrating to America where his own son became a successful businessman. And that, according to our family, is how the name Woolworth later became so familiar.

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**UNEASY ASSASSIN**

As a professional eliminator, Olga Vishinskaya had few equals and probably no betters. She would complete her mission efficiently, with a minimum of collateral problems, and to the complete satisfaction of the client. For the target, to whom she felt an almost equal responsibility, she would try to make the end agreeable within the constraints of her own paradoxically strict personal morality. Her view of death was clinical: it was inevitable sooner or later and sometimes, in terms of social hygiene, the sooner the better. She would accept an assignment only if satisfied that it served the common good, but considered it incompetence to cause any unnecessary distress in the execution.

Her disposal of Martin Barratt was a case in point. In the morning after their meeting he was found dead, and the doctor and police were called in from the nearest town as soon as the snow was sufficiently cleared towards the end of the day. Olga could truthfully say that yes, she had accompanied Martin to his room to discuss the content of a private telephone call, but although he might have had some thoughts of a more intimate acquaintance – to deny it would be unconvincing, not to say unflattering to herself – she believed he was too much the gentleman to press unwelcome attentions on her. In the event he was too tired even to suggest anything of the sort. He was certainly alive and contentedly sleeping when she left him; what happened after that she could not say.

Lisl Gertner's account was completely consistent with all this. When Herr Barratt had failed to appear for breakfast she investigated and found him apparently asleep fully clothed in his chair, but actually not breathing. He had been a fairly frequent visitor and on a previous occasion had asked for medical attention: although she was of course unaware of the reason, she had noticed this time a slight difficulty in carrying luggage, perhaps in hindsight due to something more serious than the turbulent weather.

Schandi Grüber, representing the police, found the body exactly as Frau Gertner had described. If he had thought to wonder whether the cups and coffee pot used that evening might still be available unwashed for examination, he knew Lisl better than to ask.

The doctor who attended Martin before had found signs of heart disease on that occasion, and this time nothing inconsistent with it. With no wish for gratuitous unpleasantness, he was disinclined to suggest any other cause. The local police authorities, not notably given to officious curiosity, readily accepted his view, and Olga was free to go on her way with only two days' delay.

As usual on such occasions she stopped in the next village and visited the church. She would have preferred one of the Orthodox rite, but it was a Catholic area and the Latin variety would serve just as well. Inside, she spent a few minutes in prayer before a figure of the Virgin, then lit two candles, one for Martin and one for herself. She had rather liked him, and was glad that nothing in their encounter was of a kind to embarrass him on meeting his maker. Anything else was his own responsibility, but she thought it unlikely to be particularly heinous.

That thought almost triggered another that did not quite surface. It bothered her all the way to her lunch stop, but the roads after the storm still needed more than usual care and she could spare it little attention. Over the meal, however, it took shape. Her usual targets were little better than vermin who in previous ages would as often as not have faced a well-earned judicial execution, and by despatching them she was performing a valuable service for a society now too effete to do so for itself. That was the gist of the briefing about the Weston gang before her mission, and at the time she had no reason to suppose Martin an exception, although his absence from the gathering of the rest should perhaps have given her a hint. As it was she had found him utterly different from her expectation, and her comforting his last conscious moments had come from the heart, not merely as her self-appointed duty. She had to face the possibility that his association with Weston might have been completely innocent.

In fact by this time she had all but convinced herself that it was so. However, she suddenly remembered something that Ivanov had told her and contradicted the idea. She had never questioned her superior's opinion, and disliked doubting it now, but she had to check. The information, he had said, came from Viktor, and she was confident that whoever else in the organisation might make a significant mistake in such matters, he would not. She called him up and was lucky enough to find him available to talk for a few minutes. Without explaining why, she asked if it was true that he had gathered the information on Martin Barratt; yes, he had. Not only that, but when he reported it, he had been very surprised by Ivanov's extraordinary reluctance to accept that there was nothing at all reprehensible in what could be found.

This was worrying, and adding to her anxiety she now recalled something that Katya had said after a recent assignment: she had met her target at his office and been astonished to notice on his desk a photograph of a particularly distinctive woman she could have sworn seeing with Ivanov in a restaurant the previous week. Olga had been distracted at the time and paid less attention than perhaps she should, but if Ivanov was beginning to mix his private affairs with legitimate business ...

An unfamiliar wave of righteous anger suddenly overwhelmed her, anger not only because she had been made to commit what now looked like a dreadful crime in her own eyes regardless of the law's, but an even greater anger over the injustice to her victim. And perhaps not only to him; he might well have a wife and family.

She called the inn and asked if Martin's next of kin was known. As it happened, his passport gave a Mrs. Doris Barratt of his own address as emergency contact, and the police had summoned her to identify the body. Lisl herself had telephoned her condolences, just happening to mention that she could not honestly recommend any of the accommodation near the mortuary, but the Kaiserkrone was within easy driving distance and she would gladly reserve a room if that suited Frau Barratt's convenience. The visit was to be in two days' time and of course there would be a room available if Miss Vishinskaya wished to meet the widow. It was not her business to ask why, though she privately wondered.

Olga spent much of the intervening time searching for some connection between Martin and Ivanov other than through Weston. To justify any irretrievable action she needed more substantial grounds than her present suspicions; she found none, but there was no great hurry.

Doris Barratt proved to be a skinny, sour-faced creature with an irritating voice and an air suggesting that it would often be raised in strident complaint. She made little attempt to conceal her pitifully unoriginal ideas of what might have passed with her husband on the fatal evening. Olga speculated what life, especially married life, tied to such a woman would have been like, and with a shock recognised a half-wish that she had completed her comforting of Martin with a full-scale seduction; still a virgin, she wondered how well she might have coped.

Out of courtesy she felt obliged to share a dinner table with Doris, and rather dreaded the prospect. Perhaps a decent bottle of wine would help. Real conversation was still difficult, but as an opening gambit before the main course arrived she mentioned that Frau Gertner had been surprised by Martin's coming for an appointment with someone who it turned out had not even booked a room. "Oh, that Weston character!" Doris exploded in annoyance. "You could never tell what he was going to do next. I got utterly sick of him."

This was promising; Olga refilled Doris's glass. "Did you know him well?"

"No, but he seemed to think he could have Martin at his beck and call any time he chose."

"In what way?"

"Every so often he'd phone up, and Martin would have to drop whatever he was doing and do Weston's bidding."

"I suppose he must have had a reason for putting up with it. Do you think it was blackmail or something?"

"Not exactly, but close. Martin told me that Weston had got his father out of a mess, years ago, and was still trading on it. I did wonder ..."

"What?"

"Whether there was another woman involved, but it was always a man's voice when I took the call."

"The same one?"

"Usually. But now I come to think of it, there once was someone different – a foreigner. Martin wasn't in, and this character insisted he ring back as soon as possible. He sounded furious. I wasn't at all sure it was wise to do that, but I had to pass on the message. Martin was pretty cross, too, after they'd spoken. It struck me particularly because he was usually so placid. 'That bloody Ivanov!' he said –"

"Oh?" The interjection came out sharper than she intended.

Fortunately Doris was too immersed in her own memories to register the suddenly heightened interest. "– and he wasn't normally one for swearing. I asked what was up. It seems that this Ivanov fellow was connected in some way with Weston, and that was how Martin had met him. I don't understand these things, but apparently there was a venture going that Martin thought particularly risky but if it worked out would give a good return on a little flutter. Ivanov had ignored the warning and put in more than he could afford to lose, then blamed Martin when it went wrong."

So that was it, Olga thought. It seemed to clinch the matter.

Doris was nervous about driving on the continent and had taken a cab from the town, so in the morning Olga was able to discharge a fraction of her debt to the woman by taking her to the police station specified in her "invitation". From there she went on to Salzburg where a friend in a Vienna choir was performing that evening. Over coffee after the concert, Annelise commented that Olga seemed unusually subdued.

"Sorry, I've got something on my mind."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Not really, but thanks. I've made a frightful mistake. I can't explain, but there's no way it can be put right."

The conversation fizzled out after that, and Olga returned to her hotel. As a rule she would sleep easily, but the problem she faced kept going round and round in her head, the more so as she tried to banish it. Eventually she gave up and made herself a coffee. She might as well try to work out a plan. She now had a new target, Ivanov himself, and an idea was beginning to take shape.

He was a persistent womaniser with blatant designs on her virtue, while she had been equally forthright in defending it. If the pretence of succumbing was to succeed she would have to disarm suspicion by weakening gradually, but she was confident of making it convincing enough; she had plenty of practice. Besides, lust was a powerful antidote to caution. He would almost certainly be off his usual guard, and it should not be too difficult.

The plan inevitably meant her own death too, of course, but she regarded it with almost her usual detachment. In a way, it would be welcome: she owed it to Martin.

With that decided, she slept like a log.

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COMMAND PERFORMANCE

"Who the hell is Miranda Wayneflete?" called Lucy from the front door.

"No idea," I replied (I'm afraid rather brusquely) from the kitchen, amid attempts to change the bulb holder in the ceiling light. It had probably been there since the house was built, the Bakelite had cracked, the screw had welded itself to one of the terminals and I had to cut the wire. That revealed the brittle state of the insulation, maybe just due to local overheating within the holder but the whole length had better be replaced. I had some spare 5-amp flex that would serve and fervently hoped, with little optimism, that the screws in the ceiling rose were still functional, otherwise I could see myself having to change the cable right back to the junction box, assuming that I could get at it which was not at all certain. It was not the moment for obscure questions.

Lucy came through waving a postcard, from one of the Greek islands by the look of it. It had a fairly conventional greeting ("Having a splendid time - you'd love it here" or something of the sort) but in unusually elegant handwriting and the signature was perfectly clear, more than could be said of the postmark or of the address which was in a different hand. I was nonplussed for a time; the only Waynflete who came to mind was the 15th-century Bishop of Winchester, while I could think of no Miranda at all. Then I peered more closely at the address. "Look, it's 37, not 57. I'll take it round when I've finished this job."

My fears about the wiring proved all too well founded and it was unsafe to leave as it was, so it was evening before I delivered the card to number 37. It had been up for sale for months and only recently occupied by people I hadn't yet met, so it was a good opportunity to make their acquaintance without intruding.

The door was opened by a young man in sweater and jeans with a pleasant "Hello?", but as he spoke a rolled-up sock came sailing over his shoulder and hit me squarely in the face. Too startled for the moment to say anything, I fumbled it and was about to hand it over.

"Who's that?" came a feminine voice from behind, whence appeared a girl who on realising the situation was covered in confusion. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that at all. It was one of Rob's dreadful puns ..."

"Please don't worry. There's no harm done. I just brought this card round; it was wrongly delivered to us this morning."

"What a way to repay a kindness," the girl said, almost collapsing in giggles. "Do come in - you can't stand there on the doorstep."

"Well, I ..."

"I must make amends somehow - won't you have a cup of tea or something?"

"Well, I didn't mean ... But why not? Thank you."

That was the start of a fairly close friendship. Rob explained that they'd only just moved in and hadn't got things properly organised yet, so would I mind having it in the kitchen? Sheila had at least sorted that out. Of course I didn't mind. They had a couple of stools in there, and Rob fetched a chair from a bedroom.

Sheila put on the kettle, commented that it was getting dark and switched on the light , which flickered a few times and then went out. "Damn!" said Rob. "It's always doing that."

Mounting a set of kitchen steps he jiggled the bulb which obligingly lit up again \- for a few seconds. When he tried again there was a loud bang and everything went out. "Is it a fuse or a circuit breaker?" I asked.

Rob didn't know; he hadn't found it yet. However, as expected, the arrangement was much the same as in my own place and probably over the whole estate. With the main breaker re-set everything in the kitchen started up again except the light. The breaker on that circuit refused to close and there was evidently a persistent short, so for the time being they would have to rely on flashlights or reading lamps.

Just then there was a knock at the door: Lucy, coming to see why I was taking so long. After introductions Sheila apologised for the state of the lighting and explained what had happened, asking if we knew of a reliable electrician. "Not in the village," said Lucy. "But we had the same trouble and Reg fixed it. You'll do it for them, won't you, dear?"

Women have been volunteering their menfolk for unwanted jobs ever since the marriage feast of Cana and probably long before, so that came as no surprise to me, and all the youngsters' objections were overruled. "It'll have to be tomorrow, though; I'll need daylight."

"Of course."

There proved to be a fourth cupful of tea in the pot and Rob fetched another chair; the space was getting pretty crowded but with a bit of shuffling we managed. "You did remember to deliver the card, I hope," said Lucy. I could see that she was bursting to know about Miranda Wayneflete and that was as close as she dare get to asking.

Fortunately Sheila needed no prompting and explained that they had been friends at drama school, but Miranda had married money and was off on a Mediterranean cruise. "The Wayneflete touch is a bit of swank. She's the only Miranda we know and she'd normally sign herself just that. I don't mind. Actually she's been very kind; her husband had bought this place to let but he's let us have it rent-free until we find somewhere more convenient that we can afford."

"Drama school. So you're actors, then?

"Well, resting at present. Just filling in with whatever jobs we can get."

Something stirred at the back of my mind but didn't gel until the next day. My uncle Ned had inherited a house in a remote northern valley and most years spent much of the summer there; winters were too bleak. He had become friendly with the innkeeper who had a young daughter with a progressive disease that would inevitably be fatal, probably sooner rather than later, and already limited her physical movements severely. She could read and manipulate television controls, but reception was at best patchy, and having read somewhere about "the magic of the theatre" she was longing to see a real live performance.

Taking her to an actual theatre was out of the question, and Ned had made enquiries about getting a small travelling company to perform in the village hall, but for several plausible reasons they regretfully turned him down. It occurred to me that perhaps our new friends might be prepared to put on a two-hander there. As I said, if not particularly lucrative it would help to keep their hands in, and with transport, food and accommodation all found, the fee would at least be a useful bit of pocket money.

They looked at each other, clearly interested but doubtful. "We'd have to think about it," said Sheila, evidently the business manager of the partnership.

"Of course. And I'll have to speak to my uncle. I imagine he'll expect to pay the going rate, whatever that is. He'll probably want a fairly short piece to avoid tiring the girl too much."

"Sounds reasonable. How old is she, by the way?"

"About thirteen or fourteen, I believe. And quite bright - that's what makes it such a tragedy."

"It makes it a bit easier, too. I'd imagined someone younger. Any ideas, Rob?"

"Hmm ... 'Village wooing'?"

"Possible ... about an hour ... two short intervals ... two sets ... Is that going to be a problem? What's the set-up in this hall, Reg?"

"I've never been there. But probably pretty basic."

"Then we'd better assume a bare stage. We'll need a double-sided backcloth and something to support it ... a couple of deckchairs for the ship ... a table to serve as the shop counter ..."

And so it went on. To cut a long story short, by the end of the evening they had not only accepted the suggestion but seemed quite excited about it. My only worry then was that Uncle Ned might not like it; I could imagine how disappointed they would be. I already knew the play so I could describe it to him, and much to my relief he jumped at the idea.

I made up a kind of folding screen painted with a ship's rail against a background of sea and sky on one side and on the other the stacked shelves of a village shop. We could take the deck chairs for the first scene and clutter for the shop could be provided locally. With four people and all this clobber to take besides normal luggage for a weekend, we should obviously need something much bigger than our car to carry it, so I arranged to borrow Bill Mundy's van and everything seemed set.

Bill and his wife were away for a week but due back a couple of days before we were to set off. However, the day before that, Lucy (who to my disgust had started dabbling in Twitter) received a tweet that she translated as "Sorry to let you down. Stuck in Sidmouth: sick Transit. Gloria Mundy." I suspect that the last touch was an embellishment by Lucy herself for Rob's benefit, but if so it fell flat as he knew no Latin, not even that familiar tag. Anyway, the message was clear. Luckily I was able to hire a van easily enough.

The journey was quite good, although I was a bit doubtful about some of the roads we had to use. Jack Birtwhistle, the innkeeper, was accommodating Rob and Sheila; Lucy and I were of course staying with Uncle Ned several miles up the valley and much less handy for the hall, but Jack's wife opened it up and we unloaded the stuff for the play.

As expected, the facilities were indeed basic, but just about adequate. There was no way of rigging a curtain even if we had one, but if the lights were put out briefly at the end of each scene the cast could disappear into the dressing room for the interval.

The play went off quite well, and the villagers who came to the performance seemed pleased with it. Young Jenny, the invalid, was evidently delighted although of course very limited in the appreciation she could show. Molly, her mother, assured us that she was utterly thrilled and would have loved to see it again. Hearing this, Rob and Sheila briefly conferred and ran through it again for her benefit.

A few days after returning home, we had a letter from Molly Birtwhistle thanking us for the treat put on for Jenny and assuring us that it had given her a real lift. It was a pity that we hadn't thought to record the performance as Jenny would have loved to hear it yet again. That might have been a hint, but I didn't feel we could impose on Rob and Sheila to make good the omission. Luckily, however, I happened to have a recording made years before by a couple of friends who ran a tiny theatre on Mull, so I sent a copy.

Five months later we had another letter from Molly; Jenny had passed away in her sleep. She had practically worn out the cassette with playing it over and over again, but it had made a world of difference to her as she no longer fretted over her disabilities.

She had been well liked in the community and everyone had wished to pay their respects. Enclosed was a photograph of her, lying as it were in state. She was smiling.

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SVETLANA

It was years - no, decades - since I'd seen or heard anything of Dmitri Grigoriev. In fact I'd met him only once, at a Harwell conference in the Cold War era: even then, relations at a technical level with Russians were quite cordial. He was the interpreter and minder, presumably KGB, for a visiting Soviet professor. I couldn't remember what that particular conference had been about, but I did recall him as a cheerful, affable fellow, liked by everyone, though of course there was no telling whether that was his real character or just a façade. Actually, I suppose much the same could be said about any of us.

Given such a lapse of time, an e-mail from him came as a complete surprise, and I still wonder how he found my address, but it hardly matters. After some preliminaries, the gist of it was to ask whether some IAEA papers on thorium as a nuclear fuel, under what appeared to be my name, were indeed mine. That took me back quite a few years, but they were, and in his next message he proposed a meeting to discuss an unspecified matter that might interest me, suggesting lunch at any hotel I could recommend for his stay.

I doubted whether I could really be very much use to him, as the papers had been essentially a theoretical exercise based on others' practical experience rather than my own. However, those others were probably no longer around, a free lunch seldom goes amiss, and in any case I was intrigued, so I was quite happy to make an arrangement for the following month.

Grigoriev was of course much older than I remembered him, and rather stouter, but still as agreeable as before. He introduced a woman in perhaps her mid-thirties as his daughter Svetlana, acting as his chauffeur since after a recent cataract operation he was not yet fit to drive himself. She seemed rather subdued, and later he privately told me that a few months earlier she had lost a good husband to cancer and his real purpose in bringing her along rather than his regular driver was in the hope of taking her mind off it as far as possible. I doubt whether that particular conversation helped her very much, but the general idea was good.

When we got down to brass tacks after the meal, it emerged that Grigoriev was a partner in a private company in the energy sector, looking for ways to expand, and had noticed a widespread revival of interest in thorium after a long period when it had fallen below the horizon. In particular he had read about a novel kind of fuel, based on thorium, proposed by one Walter Gruneberg, but although trials at the Kurchatov Institute were mentioned, nothing seemed to be emerging from them. His work evidently had a similar context to mine; did I know anything about the project?

As it happened, I did. I had got to know Gruneberg fairly well during the 1990s, although by then he was very old, probably little more than a figurehead for his organisation, and my main contact was his chief assistant with whom over the years I came to a good understanding. I can get on comfortably with most people, but Gruneberg himself (to adapt a comment in a play I once saw) was not just a first-class pain in the neck, he was Olympic standard. At every opportunity he would insist that if we carried on as we were doing, disaster was inevitable. It was like Cato's "Carthago delenda est." I admired his ingenuity, but he strained my patience to the limit by buttonholing me whenever we met and, however many times I'd told him, demanding yet again why I wouldn't support his pet idea.

"And why wouldn't you?"

"Because his scheme would cost billions, it couldn't really make much difference to his supposed disaster, and there was a serious question of whether it would work at all."

"What sort of question? Something wrong with his calculations?"

"No, they were way beyond me. It was a straightforward mechanical problem. The scheme involved replacing conventional fuel elements with a composite type - a core with an outer blanket. Gruneberg's whole idea depended on changing each core every few years, but after the distortion that occurs in a reactor, I didn't think it could be done, at least not reliably enough to satisfy the operators. I imagine that's why we've heard nothing from the Kurchatov."

"But your papers don't mention it."

"No, I was working on a completely different kind of scheme. Not one I'd really recommend, as things are, but I'd been asked to work something out and if nothing else it provided an opportunity to inject a bit of common sense into other discussions. In any case it might be needed if supplies of uranium ran out. For various reasons thorium couldn't be a direct substitute ..."

At that moment Grigoriev's phone rang and he excused himself to answer it. He was gone for quite a time and I tried to make conversation with Svetlana. She had good English, very fortunately since my Russian doesn't go much beyond transliteration, and it turned out that we had a common interest in music. Moreover, she was particularly keen on Borodin and Rachmaninov, among my own favourites.

Grigoriev eventually returned and, deeply embarrassed, asked if I would do him a very great favour. An emergency had arisen demanding his immediate attention, he might be away for up to a week and he couldn't take Svetlana. She would stay on at the hotel, but he was anxious about leaving her alone in a strange environment, especially in her current state of depression; could I possibly keep an eye on her and provide some entertainment? All expenses paid, of course.

My commitments for that time were not too heavy and I was glad to oblige. Grigoriev, greatly relieved, explained that he was to be picked up by helicopter in an hour's time, so Svetlana would have the use of his hire car and he urged her not to stint it. He then went to pack the necessities for his departure; Svetlana had seemed to offer help, evidently declined.

She was clearly too worried to pay much attention to me. From the little she said, I gathered that there was some danger involved in her father's mission but it seemed best not to inquire further.

The arrival of the chopper caused quite a stir among the hotel staff, who had probably never seen one at such close quarters. Neither had I, for that matter. Grigoriev appeared with a suitcase and a smaller bag that he entrusted to his daughter. After a quick hug, he boarded and was gone.

I'd thought of suggesting a run to local beauty spots, but the sky darkened, a squall blew in from the sea and was followed by steady rain. The hills vanished under cloud, and I thought the best thing was to take Svetlana home and let her rummage through my collection of music recordings. Rachmaninov would be a bit heavy for the circumstances, but as she had mentioned Borodin, for a start while she made her own choice I put on the second quartet, easy listening but still classically respectable.

She seemed undecided, but said that she was unfamiliar with British music and would I suggest something? Since she evidently favoured the later romantics, I tried a bit of Elgar that she thought she might come to like on closer acquaintance. Some carefully-chosen Vaughan Williams was another possibility, Holst was borderline but Britten got a definite thumbs down: too modern, so I tried some of Finzi's settings of Thomas Hardy; they suited her much better.

After absenting myself for a few minutes I returned to find her scanning my bookshelves. She explained that with worry over her father, she would probably have difficulty sleeping, and as she hadn't thought to bring any substantial reading matter, could she borrow something to pass the night?

"What sort of something?"

"Serious enough to hold my attention, but not too demanding."

I offered various possibilities and she settled on a Rumpole omnibus. After that it was time to return to her hotel, and I ran her back there. I was about to ask what time to meet her the next day when she said she had strict instructions from her father to give me dinner there.

I couldn't resist asking if she always followed his instructions. "Not always to the letter," she admitted with a hint of mischief that I thought showed encouraging signs of recovery from her gloom.

The next day started sunny, so I suggested a run round the western lakes. She was going to take the hire car, but I pointed out that she couldn't appreciate the scenery as driver, I wasn't going to risk driving an unfamiliar vehicle round some of the roads involved, and mine was probably better suited to them anyway. She saw the logic, but insisted on paying when I refuelled, and I had no objection.

It was Saturday, and in the evening she surprised me by saying that she would like to go to church the following day. I don't really know why it was a surprise, as Russians have a reputation for being religious, but the possibility simply hadn't occurred to me. So far as I knew there was no Orthodox church within striking distance, but she said the Orthodox and Anglican churches were in communion. Even better, if I was going to another she'd like to come with me, assuming that it would be acceptable.

I assured her she'd be very welcome, and in fact everyone made a great fuss of her. Later I got a fair amount of ribbing about it, and it was no use protesting that I was more than old enough to be her father, especially since not very long before an elderly neighbour had acquired an attractive young Spanish wife who within a year presented him with a son. But that's by the way; the immediate outcome was a string of invitations long enough to fill her time for a fortnight.

In the event she could take up only a few. To her immense relief her father called the next evening to say he would return in the following afternoon. The reunion was very emotional. Grigoriev then thanked me effusively for looking after his daughter in a difficult situation, and I assured him quite truthfully that it had been a pleasure. He was too tired to talk business just then, but would be in touch. After collecting his remaining belongings from the hotel they made their farewells, with a hug from Svetlana that left me breathless.

The next few days felt rather empty.

A few weeks afterwards a bulky parcel arrived with a Moscow postmark. In the covering letter, Grigoriev explained that in view of my advice he had decided not to pursue his tentative interest in thorium, but in appreciation and especially in gratitude for my care of Svetlana he hoped I would accept the enclosed gift - a splendid and lavishly-illustrated book on treasures of the Kremlin. I certainly wasn't going to send it back.

I thought that was the end of the matter. However, about a year later, a rather mysterious e-mail urged me to keep free a particular week some months on. Nearer that time came another package, with a photograph of Svetlana looking beatifically happy beside a man very smart in military uniform, and a formal invitation to their wedding. Also enclosed were a business-class return ticket to Moscow, instructions for meeting the chauffeur on arrival, and a voucher for a pre-paid three-day reservation in the Slavyanskaya Hotel.

Apart from the need to get a new suit, I've only one problem with that. What on earth am I to give as a wedding present?

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FAMILY REUNION

I thought we were going to have a week of my annual leave free from outside commitments so I could get on with some long-overdue maintenance jobs. How wrong can you be? Leafing through the bills and junk mail on the Saturday morning before it, I was about to throw out a sheaf of appeals from various no doubt worthy but importunate charities when I noticed caught between them a smaller envelope that turned out to be addressed to Lucy, with a French stamp. The writing looked vaguely familiar, but it took me a moment to recognise it as belonging to Lucy's sister Sophie.

I'd known the two of them since my teens. Sophie was the glamorous one, and in those days I fancied her achingly myself but never stood a chance. For that I've since been very thankful as her waywardness would have driven me mad. Her elder sister, practical, affectionate and reliable, if perhaps - how should I put it? - a shade less exciting, suited my own temperament far better, and on the whole our marriage has worked very well.

"Lucy!" I called. "Letter from Sophie, I think."

"What sort of mess has she got herself into this time, I wonder?"

Sophie, unfortunately, is one of those women who always go for exactly the wrong man, and when things don't work out she is liable to fall flat on her face. Her most recent partner, Robert, had been in jail for assaulting her the last time I heard and Sophie herself had had a nervous breakdown. Lucy had every reason to expect this latest of her rather infrequent communications to be about yet another disaster.

Surprisingly, it was not. Sophie had bought a house on the Breton coast between Brest and Quimper, about as far to the west as you can go in France, and demanded that we should visit her there as soon as possible. I was doubtful, but Lucy jumped at the idea; although they were never particularly close as adults and hadn't met in years, she welcomed the opportunity. The only possible time as far as I was concerned was the following week, and I cursed the short notice. However, when I checked the postmark which for once was partly legible, I mentally apologised; the letter had taken the best part of a month in transit.

I looked up the various travel possibilities while Lucy phoned her sister. It was going to be a formidable journey whichever way we went, and since I don't like driving too far on the continent, the main alternatives seemed to be the ferry from Plymouth to Roscoff or the Channel tunnel to Paris and then by rail to Brest. Lucy was still on the phone (no surprise there) so I put a note beside her to ask which route Sophie would recommend.

Sophie had no clear preference. However, rumours of a French rail strike raised doubts about the land route, and after checking that we could hire a car in Roscoff I settled for that.

Luckily we had a calm crossing. It was a long one and I'd taken a book, but my mind wandered to Sophie's amatory history, at least what we knew of it; there was undoubtedly a great deal she kept to herself. It started off quite innocently with a hopeless crush on a fellow-student for whom she had no chance against wealthy competition, very fortunately as she realised years later on coming across a press account of his involvement in a sordid scandal.

She got over that in time, only to fall victim to a lecherous lecturer she was naïve enough to believe in his declarations of passionate devotion to her, that is until she realised she was merely one of a harem. Swearing in a fit of indignation that she was done with men, she then concentrated on her studies and in due course got a first-class degree in modern languages. There was nothing wrong with her brain; it was her heart, or her hormones, that always let her down. To celebrate that success, and the promise of a good job with a solid and reputable travel company, she went on a tour of the ancient sites in Turkey and despite her resolution fell heavily for the guide, who lavished attention on her but of course turned out to be already married to a woman with control of the money.

Fortunately she hadn't burnt her boats back here, and we found out about this only much later, as indeed we heard very little of her more personal activities for a good few years; she probably didn't want to lose face by admitting a string of unsatisfactory involvements of which only vague suggestions came our way. She did write occasionally about other matters, and eventually of being put in charge when her company decided to open an office in St. Malo. There she met Robert (pronounced, of course, Rob-air).

He was quite an accomplished artist and she admired his work. For a woman by now within sight of her half-century she had kept herself in pretty fair trim, and he asked to paint her. I've seen the picture, and it's good in its way: superb draughtsmanship, definitely classy, but like much of his output rather lurid in the situation depicted and verging on pornography. Think of Delacroix's "Death of Sardanapalus" and you'll get the kind of flavour. I imagine that having got her conveniently in the nude he encouraged nature to take its course; anyway, they set up house together and to everyone's surprise actually married. It was a quiet affair with few guests, as most of Robert's friends probably thought it too insufferably bourgeois, but we were invited. Quite against my expectations, I rather took to him at that time.

Despite a bohemian exterior he turned out to have the ideas on marriage once considered conventional, and to be generally a faithful and considerate husband. He did however have a rather volatile temper that gradually became more evident and occasionally flared into violence. Afterwards he was always shamefacedly apologetic, but the episodes became more alarming and eventually, after what later proved to have been a complete misunderstanding, he went definitely too far. Hence the jail sentence.

Arriving in Roscoff we had a bit of a wait for the car hire office to open, so took a stroll round the old town which is quite attractive. Sophie had given us directions not quite as explicit as they might have been, but I had a map in any case and congratulated myself on successfully negotiating the minor roads to Rumengol, cutting off the two longer sides of the big triangle with its western vertex at Brest. Pride before a fall; I then missed the turning to Landévennec. Coming to Crozon, not mentioned in Sophie's notes, should have given me pause, but I wasn't fully convinced of the mistake until running out of road at what we later found was the Pointe de Penhir, identified by the hideous memorial to wartime resistance. There was no alternative to turning back, but this time after looking more carefully at the map, I made sure to turn left five kilometres past Crozon and again after another five. After yet another five or six it was a relief to see Sophie herself in the garden of her little house by the long arm of the sea.

Sophie hadn't mentioned having anyone with her in her new home, and I wondered whether that meant she was by herself or hadn't dared to admit another folly, so it was another relief to find her in solitary possession. Less pleasing was finding ourselves expected to help sort out everything that needed doing to the place, which was plenty. "Robert's still in jail, I suppose?" was all I dared to say about it.

Trust me to put my foot in it. Sophie burst into tears, and with a dirty look at me Lucy had to comfort her. It was another ten minutes before she was composed enough to say that he had died a couple of months earlier, probably because of a brain tumour.

That well and truly took the wind out of my sails. "Well, I suppose I ought to say I'm sorry, but ..." At that point Lucy kicked me quite hard and I shut up before digging myself any deeper.

"I got a formal notification from the prison authorities, of course, but a day or two later a very sympathetic letter came from the prison chaplain who'd had quite a lot to do with him. Apparently he'd thought Robert was coming round to a better state of mind. Wishful thinking, I suspect. The tumour wasn't found until after his death, and I imagine that was the cause of his erratic behaviour, so any real improvement might not have lasted very long. It might just possibly have been found in time, I suppose, but I don't know whether it was operable. In any case that's by the way; there was something he wanted me to have."

She rummaged in what passed for her filing system to produce a rather tatty piece of notepaper that she passed to Lucy, who read it with evident surprise and then handed it on to me without comment. It was a sonnet.

"If in the silence of a summer night  
I come to you in form of flesh again  
Do not, I beg, my countless faults requite  
But think upon my sorrow for your pain.

But if instead I come in spirit form  
Intangible as disembodied breath,  
A fugitive from life's destructive storm,  
Then take some satisfaction in my death.

That I have sinned I am too well aware  
To trouble you with bluster or excuse.  
I only ask that you may deign to spare  
Some pardon for my manifold abuse.

The harm once done I cannot now undo  
Yet that I loved remains for ever true."

That floored me for a good half minute. "I didn't know he had it in him," was all I could eventually mutter.

"You never saw his gentler side."

"Didn't know he had one." Something that had struck me as vaguely incongruous in the poem came to the surface; whatever her faults, Sophie had never been in the least vindictive - too far the other way, if anything. "Did you in fact take satisfaction? I shouldn't have thought it of you."

"I think he meant it in a kind of legal sense," explained Lucy. "As reparation for an offence, I mean. You know, as in the challenge to a duel - 'Sirrah, I demand satisfaction!'."

Sophie nodded, still a little tearful, so that was evidently how she had taken it, and the conversation moved on to other things. Rain in the afternoon had ceased, the wind dropped to nothing, and the sky over to the west had largely cleared. The remaining clouds, lit obliquely from below, were a blaze of gold.

"It's got a bit stuffy in here. Shall we take our nightcaps out on the terrace?" suggested Sophie once she had regained her composure, and we agreed. The setting sun had laid a trail of shimmering light along the inlet leading out towards the Atlantic, and reminded me of that scene in Bulgakov's novel where Pontius Pilate, released at last from his centuries of inertia, strides off upon the path of moonlight to meet his redeemer.

"It's a lovely evening," I commented, "and so quiet here."

"The silence of a summer night ...", murmured Lucy.

"What ...?" I asked, rather too loudly, and Lucy hastily signalled me to hush.

But Sophie hadn't heard. She was standing oblivious at the edge of the terrace, facing out to the west, arms outstretched in welcome, intent on something that I couldn't see.

Lucy, understanding her sister so well, just turned to me and shrugged, eyes uplifted in mock-despair.

Some people never learn.

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SET A THIEF ...

Ivanov had to go.

Of that Olga was certain. The vigilante group that he had organised and led successfully for many years, with (as she still believed) genuine concern for the public good, had latterly been subverted to serve his own private ends. She had realised all along that to warrant the fees willingly paid, clients suggesting targets who ought to be dispatched must themselves have had a very substantial material interest that tainted the reliability of their information, hence the importance of Ivanov's independent checks. Now it was clear that her latest assignment had not been the elimination of a villain but personal revenge for a misfortune brought upon himself by Ivanov's own greed and disregard of warnings. She bitterly regretted it, especially since on very brief acquaintance she had come to like the man.

That thought made her stop and check a rather different line. Had she allowed her personal feelings to cloud her judgement? It was important to be sure before going any further along the path she contemplated. Martin Barratt had been very agreeable, certainly, but many a scoundrel can be charm itself when it suits him. Did that idea fit the character? No, not at all, so far as she could judge, and she had plenty of experience. He had probably fancied his chances with her, as would practically any normal man in the circumstances, and she had no false modesty about her own attractions; they were too useful in her work. Even so, their conversation had been on exactly the level to be expected of casual acquaintances thrown together just for an evening, and her concern for the comfort of his final conscious moments no more than it would have been for any other decent individual.

With that settled, she had to consider how to go about dealing with Ivanov. The near-impossibility of doing so without sharing his destruction did not greatly trouble her, since she regarded it as a reparation for her own guilt. However, when it came to the point, she found that she had been forestalled.

Katya was a brilliant driver, and the car crash that she had engineered to dispose of Ivanov left her seriously but not fatally injured. The damage was fully repairable. Visiting her in hospital, Olga found that their motives had been similar; Katya had been appalled to find that Ivanov, for whom marital fidelity was simply an obstacle to his own sexual conquests, had used her merely to dispose of an inconvenient husband.

Wishing her a good and rapid recovery, Olga left the hospital and pondered her own course. Katya had agreed that Ivanov's treachery left the group too ethically compromised to continue, and so did Viktor, the most important remaining conspirator, when told of the situation. In fact Olga's revulsion now covered the whole profession. That left her wondering about her own future.

Although her occupation would horrify the conventionally pious, she was deeply religious in her own strange way. On her next visit to her confessor, who while aware of her activities had given up trying to convince her that they were not just criminal but seriously immoral, he was greatly relieved to hear of her decision. Of course he urged her again to admit her actions to the authorities; he had to, but as she always said, what good would that do for anyone? In that case, he now suggested, she might more usefully apply her expertise to preventing assassinations instead of performing them. It seemed worth trying.

In Ivanov's records she had found that the next target on the list was a Dmitri Grigoriev. As a matter of course Ivanov always kept information about clients in a code to which only he held the key, but Olga had already cracked it simply for amusement. In this case it was an oligarch in the Russian energy industry to whose plans Grigoriev's much smaller enterprise was an irritating impediment, and at the very least she could warn him of the danger.

She was not to know that there had recently been another plot on his life in which his own security chief appeared to be implicated, one foiled only after a tense few days that left the post decisively vacant. Given her acknowledged background he needed to be very sure of her good faith before accepting the warning at face value, but everything she told him came successfully through the most stringent tests that he could apply, and subsequent events convinced him in other ways of her loyalty. He therefore recruited her to his now depleted security staff. The hostile client would obviously have to find a new executioner, and that gave some time for extra precautions.

In the event they were not needed as the enemy ran into difficulties of his own that for the time being would make Grigoriev more useful as an ally than troublesome as a competitor. When approached to join forces he kept to himself that he knew of the earlier plan, but had it very much in mind until political complications neutralised whatever threat might remain. Olga was then able to spend some time devising suggestions for improved general security that impressed Grigoriev deeply enough for her to be put in charge of implementing them.

Otherwise a year passed with no more demanding task than discretely vetting friends of Gigoriev's widowed daughter Svetlana. One with whom she spent increasing amounts of time was an army officer by the name of Vladimir Youssupov. Because of his habit of sticking bills on a spike pending readiness to pay them, he was known among his friends as Vlad the Impaler, a nickname that even if merely humorous did not endear him to her father. Neither did the association of the family name with the assassination of Rasputin, ancient history though it was. It was only an uncomfortable feeling, but Grigoriev's instincts had served him well and he therefore got Olga to run particularly careful checks on the man.

Beyond improvidence and the likelihood that his interest was as much pecuniary as romantic, nothing particularly discreditable turned up; his military duties were apparently discharged adequately, he had reasonable social graces and there was no suggestion of philandering. He had one known previous attachment that after years of going neither one way nor the other had ended unspectacularly, Olga thought probably from sheer boredom, and while Grigoriev could raise no enthusiasm for him, neither had he any solid objections. Youssupov's eventual asking formally in the old-fashioned way for permission to propose marriage was overly fastidious and struck Grigoriev as distinctly odd, but hardly grounds for criticism, and permission was given with at least an appearance of readiness.

The guest list passed to Olga for checking well before the wedding had the expected mixture of family, friends, business associates and politicians whose favour needed to be cultivated. One entry however stuck out like a sore thumb: an Englishman with no obvious link to any of the other categories. It was so far out of keeping that it could hardly have crept in by accident, but no one else among the staff knew anything about him and Olga was compelled to ask Svetlana herself.

Evidently it was someone who had been particularly kind to her when she had been stranded for a few days in England during the previous crisis. Everything that Olga could find out about him was satisfactory but she had lingering doubts that she felt warranted a personal investigation and therefore arranged a visit to England. That was the easy bit; reaching the actual village was another matter, but she got there eventually, wondering how on earth a supposedly modern country could have such poor provision for travel outside the main centres.

She had an address, but not a street plan, so asked at the Post Office, mentioning in the hope of useful information that she was to visit a Brian Hoskins: he was away for the week, but a neighbour might know where if the business was urgent. One of them could only say that it was somewhere in Scotland, but the other had contact details, and it turned out that the hotel had a last-minute cancellation for the next two nights; would she like to be picked up from the station? So it was arranged.

Fortunately it was on the main line to the far north, so the journey was straightforward. On checking in she asked if Mr. Hoskins was there.

"That's his key, so probably not. Is he expecting you?"

"No, this business came up suddenly and I wasn't able to warn him."

"Shall I tell him you're here when he comes in?"

"Thank you, but the name wouldn't mean anything to him. I'd prefer meeting him to come as a surprise."

The girl was a little taken aback. "A pleasant one, I hope."

"So do I!"

Come dinner time, she asked the maitre d' to identify Hoskins to her without attracting his attention. He was eating alone, which simplified matters, and afterwards she found a seat in the lounge within his line of vision. He clearly took appreciative notice of her and with a rather more subtle variant on the old dropped-handkerchief routine, she was soon able to get into the conversation that on past experience she was confident he would welcome. It was her first visit to the area, but by no means his, and the expected offer to show her around came very readily. They arranged to breakfast together.

During that meal, however, the receptionist came to tell him of a telephone call. On returning, he explained very apologetically that he'd have cancel their arrangement, or postpone it a day (Olga assured him that the morrow would be quite satisfactory) as his cousin's widow needed help to settle a problem with her late husband's estate.

"She's only recently bereaved, then?"

"No, it was over a year ago. An odd business - he'd been called to a meeting in a Tyrolean hotel, but the other fellow didn't appear. It turned out that he was in some criminal gang that had been wiped out by a rival lot that afternoon."

Olga was startled, but mentioned having heard of such an incident about that time involving a character called Weston.

"Weston! Yes, that was the name. I should have remembered; Doris was always going on about what a pest he was. Forever wanting information about my work, but wouldn't ask me directly. Anyway, whether it was due to that shock I don't know, but during the night Martin himself had a fatal heart attack."

"How awful! I hope you can sort out the problem."

"I don't suppose it's anything serious. Doris always tends to fuss. She's no need to; Martin left her pretty well provided."

That relieved one of Olga's qualms. Brian left her with suggestions for occupying the day and they arranged a time to meet for dinner.

The following morning Brian suggested an itinerary, including the reconstructed Iron Age lake dwelling on Loch Tay, the Ben Lawers visitors' centre particularly for its explanation of the rather surprising local geology, and then perhaps the 5000-year-old Fortingall yew tree. Olga was happy to agree, since as she said, he knew the area and she didn't. However, she found the tortuous track over the pass into Glen Lyon decidedly hair-raising, and eventually had to ask for a stop as she was feeling rather queasy.

They got out and Olga went to the edge, breathing deeply and admiring the view. Brian, with a fit of sneezing, failed to hear another car descending the slope, far too fast. It rounded a sharp bend, skidded and headed straight for him. Olga hurled herself at him, sending him staggering clear, but was herself caught by the car's sliding rear end and flung on to an exposed rock.

Her last thought was of relief at having finally cleared her debt to Martin Barratt's family.

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FANTASY

My nephew Tybalt (don't ask!) has a penchant for avant-garde theatre. Lacking a venue wherein his wonders to perform, not to mention the little matter of a production company, he develops his ideas as animations on a computer, rather like Peter Jackson's pre-visualisations for "The Lord of the Rings." When Lucy and I called on him one day, he was in the midst of working on one of his creations and said we could see it if we wished, rudimentary though it still was. It would have been churlish to decline, despite my misgivings about being asked to comment afterwards.

The "stage" set was an almost barren rocky landscape in dull browns, arranged to give a perspective of some distance. On a ledge down left was a large round blob of a faintly bluish white. Roughly centre stage was another, up right a third, smaller than the others even allowing for the perspective. Call them A, B and C. Up centre was a sort of glowing brazier.

Suddenly blob A unfolded as a tall tubular creature crowned with waving tentacles, and at brief intervals B and C followed suit. C started wandering about and B called out to it that getting too close to the brazier would be dangerous, but to no effect: C did get too close and exploded.

The set cleared and a crude cut-out drawing of an airliner was drawn across the proscenium, stage right to left, buckling somewhat as it moved. The implication was apparently that A and B were aboard. As it vanished into the wings, a sign of the "Keep off the grass" kind appeared down left, actually labelled "ALGERIA".

That was as far as it went. "What the hell was all that about?" I asked. "Those sea anemones or whatever they were - what are they supposed to represent?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. It was a dream I had the other night, and thought I might be able to make something of it." Tybalt, I should say, rather prides himself on his weird dreams, and this was just about par for the course.

"And have you?"

"Not yet. I'm still working on it."

"Something about airport security and keeping children under control, perhaps?"

"Hmm. I suppose that might have possibilities. I'll think about it."

Months later, at a loose end after the first session of a two-day meeting in a distant city, I passed a cinema and wondered if it might have anything worth seeing. There were apparently half a dozen different auditoriums (or should that be auditoria?) but nothing currently on offer appealed to me; however, in the "Coming Shortly" window was an image just like Tybalt's stage set, complete with sea anemones, though with the addition of a practically naked and decidedly over-developed young woman sprawled across one of the rocks. I suppose the effect was intended to be erotic, but to me it was simply grotesque; perhaps I'm getting too old to appreciate such things. There must have been a title of some sort superimposed upon it, but I don't remember, so maybe the figure distracted me more than I admitted to myself.

Back home, I phoned Tybalt and asked if his fantasy had actually come to fruition. "No such luck," he said. "I worked it up a bit from what I showed you, but it never looked promising enough to be worth continuing. Why do you ask?"

I told him of the cinema poster and he laughed. "Oh, that. A friend in the production business called a while back and I let him see it. He knew someone who was looking for ideas and might be interested, but all that came of it was a licence to use some of the artwork in a science-fiction epic - probably less to do with science than porridge has with haute cuisine, but that's what they call it."

"Have you seen what they've done with it?"

"The bit of crumpet on the rocks, you mean? It's within their rights. They've paid for it; not much, but ..."

There was no need to go on. I commiserated and left it at that.

I thought of his porridge when a film came out purportedly blowing the whistle on an industrial topic about which I actually knew something. I was pretty sure of what it would be like but of course had to see it, especially after a correspondent in the local paper praised it to the heavens for exposing concealed dangers.

It turned out worse than I feared, and I wrote to the paper pointing out that the risks were minute compared with those everyone took with scarcely a thought, and that a lot of the claims were essentially guesswork. The letter was published, but in the next week's issue was a rebuttal that in the context of the writer's not entirely accurate information did make sense. It referred to a web site, again reasonable in its own terms, with a contact address. Given the unusual tone of the material I thought it worth suggesting a meeting to discuss it.

The response, though wary, was positive, and a few evenings later I duly turned up at 38 Dorchester Gardens. "Gardens" was a bit optimistic, but the property along the road generally looked neat and well-maintained; when a middle-aged man opened the door I honestly complimented him on what he had done with the limited space in front of the building. He seemed pleased, confirmed his name as Carter and when I identified myself cheerfully invited me in. Rather diffidently he explained that while it was his teenage son I wanted to see, he hoped I would not object if he himself sat in on the meeting - a very wise precaution, I agreed.

Mrs. Carter was anxious to watch a TV programme just about to start, so the conference took place in young Ronnie's lair upstairs. The walls were almost covered with posters of various kinds, and among them I was astonished to see the one with the sea anemone figures, but let it pass for the time being. The discussion with the lad was very interesting and he impressed me as remarkably logical. Afterwards Fred Carter said he hadn't understood a word of what we'd been saying but gathered that it had made sense to Ronnie, and he was grateful for my coming. The missus was probably about to put the kettle on; would I care to join them? Of course I was glad to. After he had gone, Ronnie apologised with some embarrassment for his insisting on being present. "He's a bit old-fashioned, you see."

"And a very good thing, too. You can't be too careful with someone coming out of the blue. But there's something else: I couldn't help noticing that poster over the bed. Did you see the film?"

"Yes, worse luck. Utter rubbish," he said disgustedly.

"Then why keep the poster?"

"It fascinated me."

"The woman?"

He grimaced but choked off a response he seemed about to make. "No, those weird figures. I keep imagining different things that might be going on."

"Such as?"

"Well, perhaps the scene being underwater, the brazier a volcanic eruption, the adults drifting away on the floating wreck of an airliner and being warned off about an epidemic of algeria mycofulgens."

"Of what?"

"Oh, just a bit of nonsense."

At that point there was a call "Tea's up!" from below and we went to join his parents. Even more appreciative than her husband, Amy Carter practically gushed that while she and Fred knew nothing of the matter discussed with Ronnie, they were really grateful for my taking the trouble to talk with him.

"It was a pleasure. He has some good points that I'll have to think about. And then we got talking about other things, and I was particularly interested in some of his ideas. I think they might be useful to someone I know. May I introduce them?"

Fred and Amy looked at each other doubtfully. "Well, if he's respectable ..."

"He's my nephew, and I think I can vouch for his behaviour."

"I'm sorry, I ..."

"No, no, don't be. You're absolutely right to be cautious."

At the next opportunity I phoned Tybalt and explained the situation. He was sceptical, but agreed to meet Ronnie the following week. Afterwards he called me, quite excited and full of enthusiasm. "That lad's a real find. He's given me enough ideas to finish the piece completely."

"You're giving him due credit, I hope?"

"Of course. I'm seeing his father next week and we'll have a proper legal contract."

In effect they formed a partnership, although being still a student Ronnie was only part-time and a pretty small part of the time at that. It didn't matter: his ideas were what Tybalt really needed. The arrangement continued for years even after Ronnie got a day job with an engineering firm, and their films gained quite a reputation in their niche. They actually made money, too.

One evening the two of them were puzzling over an episode that simply would not work logically. Ronnie was far from his usual ingenious self and seemed out of sorts generally. Tybalt asked if he were sickening for something.

"No, it's my mother. It looks pretty bad for her."

It was indeed bad, and within a month Amy Carter died. I'd met her only the once but thought that enough justification for attending the funeral. Fred was obviously distressed, and I offered condolences as best I could - "She'll be sadly missed," and all that.

"Aye," said Fred, "she will. But there's just one thing I'm glad about."

"Oh? What's that."

"That she never found out about what Ronnie was doing with your nephew."

"Why's that? It was harmless enough, surely."

"Oh yes, I'm not saying anything against it, though from what he said it seemed a bit silly. But Amy couldn't stand that sort of thing. She said there were enough problems in the world as it was, without imagining things that could never happen. The trouble I had keeping from her what Ronnie was up to!"

His sister had arranged for refreshments to be served in the church hall after the interment. I hadn't thought my connection warranted butting any further into a family affair, but Ronnie came up and insisted I should join them, so I could hardly refuse. He seemed particularly downcast, and at one point when we chanced to come together I offered the conventional platitudes that however great the sorrow, death is inevitable and for those left behind life must go on. He nodded absent-mindedly as though that wasn't really the problem, then confided that he had something difficult to tell Tybalt and would like me to be present.

"Why, what can I do?"

"I don't really know, but I'd be grateful if you'd come."

Still puzzled, but anxious to help in any way I could, I followed him over to where Tybalt was talking to someone I didn't recognise. Ronnie evidently didn't want to interrupt, but hung about until the stranger shook hands and departed.

"Tybalt, I've got something important to tell you."

"Now?"

"It can't wait much longer. I'm dreadfully sorry, but I'm afraid I can't go on working with you."

"Why on earth not? Extra family responsibilities or something?"

"No, nothing like that. I really should have told you years ago."

"I'm sorry, but you've lost me. What is it you're trying to tell me?"

"Well, when I said I couldn't continue, I didn't mean I didn't want to. I mean it's impossible."

"What the ...?"

"You see, I never had an original idea in my life. I could take one that already existed, like your sea-anemone scene, and work out all kinds of possible consequences, but I had to have something to start with."

"Oh?"

"And she'd never admit it, but it was always Mum who had the basic notion."

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A HARMLESS DECEPTION

Miranda was bored out of her mind.

The cruise had gone well at first, and she had particularly enjoyed the Greek islands and the excursions to Egyptian antiquities. However, in Singapore she had picked up a bug that confined her to her cabin for several days. The Southern Alps in new Zealand had cheered her up, especially as she thought she recognised some locations from the "Lord of the Rings" films, but during the long haul across the Pacific the on-board entertainment began to pall and she wished for a little more excitement.

As they say, "Be careful what you wish for." In the midst of the Crossing the Line ceremony, the ship suffered a serious power failure. It was just one in a series of calamities to have struck such vessels in the past year or two, and there were not entirely frivolous suggestions that Someone up there might be dropping a hint about conspicuous extravagance in a world with millions starving. More sceptical passengers muttered about cost-cutting on maintenance, but neither explanation made the discomfort and anxiety easier to bear.

Although arriving under tow at Tarawa in Kiribati put an end to the more lurid fears among passengers with no worse experience of danger than a visit to the dentist, that was about as much as could be said for it. There may be duller places, but no one could think of any. Complaints about conditions on board were pointless: an emergency generator had been found, but could cope only with a few essential functions such as refrigeration of the ship's food stocks, and luxuries such as air conditioning were well beyond its capacity. In the equatorial heat even the most passionate sun-worshippers were interested only in shade, and competition for places under the inadequate awnings was intense. Someone who made a joke about "The hottest property in town" was nearly thrown into the lagoon, and but for the fear of sharks he might have welcomed the dip.

Despite the oppressive heat below decks, sheer desperation drove Miranda to another search of the library despite her near-conviction of having exhausted its possibilities. She had almost given up what little hope there was when she spotted a battered paperback thrust far back and spine first between two larger volumes. It turned out to be Arthur Grimble's "A Pattern of Islands" which she bore off in triumph to the least uncomfortable spot she could find.

Among these tales of colonial administration almost a century earlier in what is now Kiribati, she came to Grimble's account of apparently meeting the ghost of a village elder on his way to face the judge of the dead. It fascinated her, and the more she re-read it, the more eager she became to visit that particular island. How that might be achieved at least gave her something to think about.

Another of the passengers was a retired army officer by the name of Ron Carpenter. He had a roving eye that, as she was well aware, had more than once alighted lasciviously on Miranda. She didn't mind; a cat can look at a king, after all, supposing the animal can find one. He was only too pleased when she asked his advice on getting to Makin Island.

Her reasons gave him an idea, which he shared with the cruise manager Ted Norris, who was at his wits' end to find ways of entertaining his charges. Why not organise a boatload to visit the place? Norris was definitely interested, and they put it to the skipper.

"Hmm. Have you any idea how far it is to Makin?"

"It doesn't look terribly far on the map."

A chart was produced. "Well, you see, it's the best part of two hundred miles. Suppose you have a boat that can do twenty knots, which is optimistic. That means about ten hours each way. You only have twelve hours' daylight, and I don't suppose you'd contemplate an overnight stay even if I allowed it. I'm sorry, but it just isn't on."

Carpenter was crestfallen. "I hadn't realised. The map in the book didn't have a scale."

That gave Norris an idea. "So the girl herself doesn't know how far it is?"

"I don't see how she could."

"Well, then. How about a little harmless deception? Makin's the northern tip of the whole group. Here's Tarawa atoll, and at the northern tip there's this other little island. That's about twenty miles away. After twenty miles of choppy water in a small craft, no one's likely to complain that it isn't far enough. And they won't have any idea of what either island looks like."

"Just as well. The situations are totally different."

"But you won't see that from sea level. And these islands are never more than a few feet higher."

Eventually it was agreed, and an explanatory notice posted inviting interest. Unsurprisingly, given the lack of alternatives, there were more than enough signatures to warrant a lottery for places, although of course Miranda as originator of the idea had one automatically. Norris suggested that Carpenter deserved the same privilege, but he waived it; he had other ideas.

However, the rest of the passengers still needed consideration. A possibility arose with the discovery that a Joe Goodwin, son of an American survivor from the battle for Tarawa in 1943, now lived in Bairiki, the next village along the southern arm of the atoll; he had heard so much about the fighting that after retiring from a hectic business career he had come to see the place for himself, been charmed by the leisurely pace of life and decided to stay. Norris had never before heard of the battle and found that he was far from alone in his ignorance, so something on the lines of a lecture might be appreciated. Goodwin was willing, and so it was arranged.

He started with a summary of the strategic situation. In the eight months after Pearl Harbour, Japanese power had extended to a line between the Aleutians in the north and the Gilberts in the south. The expansion was halted with the failure of the attack on Midway Island, and the rest of the Pacific war was its painfully slow reversal by American and Australian pressure.

Betio Island, the south-western tip of Tarawa, had been heavily garrisoned with an airfield posing an unacceptable threat to the American westward advance further north, though an invaluable asset if it could be captured. It was therefore taken in a three-day battle that left the garrison virtually annihilated, though with over three thousand casualties on the American side too, a third of them fatal: a miscalculation of the tide had left conventional landing craft stopped at the edge of the reef and sitting ducks to intense fire from shore positions that were supposed to have been destroyed by the preliminary bombardment. A lot of the wrecks were still where they sank.

"There might be some interesting diving there," someone commented.

"No chance," said Goodwin. "Not all the dead were recovered, so they're effectively war graves, and there'll be tons of unused ammunition still lying around, probably in a thoroughly dangerous condition by now. It wouldn't do to bump into any of that."

"And how many Japs were killed?"

"Figures differ, but around four and a half thousand. Only seventeen surrendered. But according to some of the surviving Korean labourers they'd brought in, one unit tried to make a break across the lagoon, probably hoping to reach Buariki. That's the last sizeable island in the north of the atoll. There was a rumour at the time that a boat of some kind came to grief nearby. Certainly over a hundred men got there by the long way round and had to be mopped up later."

Meanwhile Carpenter's plans were set in place. He had found someone with a fast boat that could get him to the pseudo-Makin before the main party. To add a little spice to their experience, he would have it put about that he had suffered a heart attack during the night, then during their lunch break he would walk northwards past them along the coastal path in the manner of Grimble's supposed ghost.

It was crucial to the plan that his supposed illness should be made known to the expedition, equally that no one should investigate it too closely, so he briefed Sally Cartwright, one of the ladies he had found more discreet and very much more agreeable than most, who thought his scheme highly amusing. He was particularly anxious that Constance Baraclough, a lonely widow he had been assiduously avoiding since a rather ambiguous episode early in the cruise, should be deterred from any attempt to "comfort" him in his indisposition. If she persisted he was to be in hospital under observation and on no account to be disturbed.

On the genuine Makin there would have been no chance of going astray, but as it was they would have to cross Buariki which might be another matter, so together with Sally he consulted the navigating officer. Fortunately there was an annotated satellite view on the Internet that showed one important difference, readily avoided. It would be best to land at the village and follow the path to Naa islet; if there had ever been a real gap it had now disappeared.

Come the morning, Mrs. Baraclough was indeed hard to convince that there was nothing she could usefully do for Carpenter; Miranda too was concerned about him, and blamed this distraction for the vagueness of her feeling that they had reached the landing point much earlier and with less exposure to the Pacific swell than she would have expected. Nevertheless, when half a mile from the village they reached a fork in the road and took the right rather than the left branch, she objected that according to the book, visitors to the island should follow the western route.

"We haven't reached that point yet; there's still a mile and a half to go. We checked last night, and that path to the left just peters out in the bush. Things have obviously changed a lot in the ninety years since Grimble's time; it's hard to tell where this island ends and the other starts, as there's a strip of land all the way."

That more or less satisfied her, though she still had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. It intensified on the further islet when the path veered away from the shore a hundred yards short of the point, but Sally pointed out that it would be natural if the villagers were to avoid the Place of Dread where the terrible spirit judge held court. That at least was reasonable, though the place itself when they walked to it along the beach seemed no more dreadful than any other.

"That's because you don't have centuries of superstition behind you."

It seemed rather an anticlimax, so the party withdrew to a glade in the bush where they could get some shade while eating their lunch. Afterwards one of the more fastidious ladies decided to wash her plate in the sea. The tide was low and she had to go some way out, where she could see round a bend in the path. On her return she commented that someone was coming up from the south.

"A villager?"

"Doesn't look like it."

As the figure approached Mrs. Baraclough suddenly caught her breath. "It looks like Major Carpenter."

It did indeed. They all watched in silence as the figure trudged by, completely ignoring them. Someone called out, but it took no notice, going on across the beach and into the shallows. Suddenly it stumbled; there was a violent explosion, and a burst of water, coral fragments and other things was hurled high into the air.

Miranda, standing beside Sally, clutched instinctively at her arm, but it wasn't there. Sally had fainted.

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FOWLER'S CAVE

"And what brings you here, young man?"

Molly Birtwistle wasn't normally inquisitive - curiosity was not encouraged in Skiddledale - but a visitor to the valley, and evidently an Australian at that, was an event so far beyond normality as to give her some excuse. The phone line had been down for some days, mobiles never worked in the valley, and the man had arrived unannounced at the pub asking if he could take a room for perhaps a week. Business had been slack, and his custom was not to be despised, so he received what amounted to an open-arms welcome from Jack: "Aye, lad, I think we can put thee up." Molly had been too busy adjusting her programme, and providing a decent evening meal for the visitor, to ask any questions earlier, but she could now relax a little.

I heard about all this from my uncle Ned, who had popped in for a pint that evening. Not a native Skiddledaler, having inherited his house from a fairly distant relative, he understood but did not share the habitual taciturnity of the valley, and gladly treated the stranger for the sake of more interesting company.

After mutual introductions at the bar, Nick Goodwin explained that one of his forbears, Tom Fowler, had come from the valley but had been transported for poaching and breaking the arm of a gamekeeper on the estate of a landowner in the next valley. There was a bit of history there. Tom had somehow become friendly with Sir Archibald's son Timothy and on one occasion when the squire's cricket team was short of a man, Tom was pressed into service and saved the match by scoring a crucial twenty-odd runs at the tail end. Nevertheless he was afterwards snubbed as a social inferior and bore his resentment to his death; hence the poaching raids in later life.

In his teens he had spent much of his time exploring the unfrequented head of the valley with his dog, Spot. In one place the collapse of an underground cavern, goodness knows how many thousand years before, had left a kind of amphitheatre now sparsely occupied by mostly low scrub. However, against the northern wall where run-off had created an area of slightly greater fertility, a screen of more substantial growth had formed. Spot of course had to investigate behind it, and disappeared for a surprisingly long time despite being called repeatedly. Eventually he returned with a piece of ancient bone that Tom at first thought must have come from a sheep but on closer examination might perhaps be human.

That warranted closer investigation, so Tom forced his way between the bushes and the rock face, finding an opening a few feet wide and deeper than the length of his arm or even of a stick that he carried. Not much light reached even the mouth so of course the interior was completely obscure. Tom thought he might return some time with a lantern, but kept quiet about it on returning home as he thought it might some day be useful to have a secret hide-out.

The occasion came when he was on the run after the spat with the gamekeeper. He found that the cave opened out after a couple of feet into quite a large chamber with more than adequate headroom for occupation, and he spent a few days camped out there before being caught on a hunt for provisions. He had to clear quite a lot of clutter but was able to make it tolerably comfortable. What amazed him once his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light was a series of painted drawings on the flatter areas of wall: animals, humans and in one alcove, a complete hunting scene. He had enough skill to copy the more impressive into a notebook along with a sketch of the approach and an account of the discovery, and that notebook had now come down to Nick. He was anxious to find the cave and investigate.

"I'd have thought the professional palaeontologists would have been interested enough to help with that. It must be rare; after all, you never hear of cave art in Britain."

"That's the problem. I gather there's hardly any, and what there is was engraved, not painted, so the professionals I've approached simply don't believe it."

"Always the same, isn't it? Amateurs with new ideas are never welcome. Do you have any directions to the actual location?"

"No, just the drawings. Tom knew where it was, obviously, but probably didn't want to give anything away."

"Reasonable enough. Do you think I could have a look at the drawings?"

That was the start of Ned's involvement. He had some free time and Nick was only too pleased to accept local assistance. Enquiries of sheep farmers, the most likely people to know about such a feature of the landscape, were less help than Ned had hoped, as no one recognised the drawing; of course, the bushes in front of the cave mouth must have changed completely in the two centuries or more since it was made. However, three possible locations might fit the verbal description, and the second looked most promising, although if there were actually a cave mouth it could be reached only with the branches cut back from the rock.

Returning the next day with more lights and a range of cutters, they cleared enough for at least Nick to see there was cave mouth and get inside, where he found the situation just as described and took a series of photographs (digital, so they could be quickly recovered and copied). After that they cleared the way enough for Ned too to enter and confirm the discovery. Nick was all for going straight to the Press with the shots, but Ned urged caution.

"People don't worry too much about property rights up here, but that's because only sheep have any interest in the place. Once this story gets out, you can't tell what may happen; maybe only a few specialists will take any notice, but it's far more likely to bring tourists, and I'm not at all sure they'd be welcome. We'd better discuss it with Jack Birtwhistle at the pub this evening. I'll arrange to have dinner with you there, and we can explain the situation afterwards."

Jack, appraised of the situation, called in some of his cronies and as expected there was a serious disagreement over whether an influx of visitors would be a good or a bad thing. However, Ned pointed out that there was no need for a hasty decision on that, as the paintings could have been there for anything up to forty thousand years and weren't going to fade in the next month or so.

However, Nick's discovery needed to be registered officially without necessarily publicising the location. Fortunately the phone line had at last been repaired, and Ned was able to e-mail the photographs to me with a list of the professionals whom Nick had contacted. The one who had been most disparaging proved to have a bitter academic rival, so that was obviously the man to approach and I made arrangements for the two of them to visit him.

He was immediately enthused by the photographs and, sworn to secrecy on the location, promised to visit it personally with one or two trusted colleagues as soon as it could be set up. Without proper dating he wouldn't commit himself on the age of the paintings, although he suggested somewhere around twenty thousand years, but their real significance lay in their being so much further north than anything comparable previously known. Because of its importance, he was as anxious as anyone to keep the place secret at least until the date could be roughly confirmed. There was an important conference coming up, and he looked forward with glee to the prospect of presenting a bombshell.

All this was conveyed to Jack Birtwhistle, who was as relieved as anyone that the question of publicity could be postponed. While eager for the extra business that tourism could bring, he realised that it could be disruptive and had no wish to anger his regular customers. Meanwhile, life could go on as usual, but to avoid being caught on the hop, he made tentative enquiries about a hypothetical possibility of setting up a minibus service to the head of the valley and painted an "UNFIT FOR CARS" sign for the track beyond the pub. He was confident that few tourists would want to walk the distance, and any who did could be welcomed unreservedly; they were sure to be hungry and thirsty on their return, and there was nowhere else to go. When the query about the minibus sparked a disturbing question of why it might be wanted, he invented a totally spurious tale about the Ramblers' Association and a possible walking route to Hawes for which a start along the way might be appreciated.

His thoughts about this were interrupted by an appalling racket from upstairs. His yell of "What the hell's going on up there?" was evidently drowned out and, with hands over his ears, he went to investigate. His son Robin was there with a friend Sandy who had a received as a birthday present a radio cum CD player of the "ghetto blaster" variety that they were putting through its paces. Unable to make himself heard, Jack signalled them to turn it down as they reluctantly did but only to a merely deafening level; in fear for his hearing, he charged in and turned it off. "If you've got to use that damned thing, do it outside!" he told them.

Out they went, but in the open air the volume failed to satisfy them. Robin remembered overhearing about the cave, and suggested that as an enclosure it might improve matters if they could get there without having to carry the machine all the way. The next afternoon they spotted Albert Williams heading that way with a trailer loaded with sacks of feed, and begged a lift; Sandy's dog decided to join them, and they saw no reason why he shouldn't.

Three hours later, Jack had an emergency call from Albert; Sandy had appeared, badly bruised and in great distress with a story of Robin's being caught in a rock fall. "Get everyone you can up here."

There weren't many around, but he piled the few into his car and dashed off up the valley. In a sense they were too late: Albert and his hands had already got Robin out, and his wife had patched up the cuts, but the broken leg needed hospital care. On the way Jack got the story.

The lads had found the cave and thought the effect very satisfactory; the dog evidently didn't and stayed outside. Robin had brought along a relatively innocuous bottle of something or other from the bar with a good supply of crisps and they were making quite a party of it. Then the CD came to an end and the dog, relieved at the silence, came in for attention and a nose around. He must have somehow altered the volume setting because when the next CD started, the result was too loud, the dog bolted and Robin jabbed at the control, inadvertently turning it up instead of down. The reverberation was terrible and the cave roof started to collapse; Sandy scrambled out safely, but Robin was caught by a rock on his legs.

"At least you're safe," was Jack's comment.

"Yes, but there's the Rugby match tomorrow."

"Well, one thing's certain; you won't be playing."

As Molly said afterwards, that was the least of the worries. What were they going to say when Professor Whatsisname turned up to look at the wall paintings and couldn't get at them, even if they hadn't been destroyed?

However, at least Robin had lost his taste for rock music.

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##  About the author.

Peter Wilson is a retired industrial chemist living in Seascale, on the Cumbrian coast near the north-west corner of England.

A short biography and more of his writing (plays, film scripts and some non-fiction) may be found with contact details at his web site

http://www.peterwilson-seascale.me.uk

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