Ann Granger - Mitchell and Markby 09 - A Touch of Mortality p.01

A Touch of Mortality
A Meredith and Markby Mystery


by Ann Granger
Copyright © 1996, ISBN: 0-380-73087-1

*1*

"There'll be frost again tomorrow, just like there was this morning. A chap in the pub said so," Libby's Uncle Denis had announced the previous evening at the family table.

"They're a mine of information, these men you keep meet­ing in pubs!" muttered Mrs. Hancock, setting down the teapot with unnecessary force.

Libby had hastened to head off family acrimony. "The frost had turned everything white this morning. Just like a snowfall."

Mopping up this piece of information as easily as he was mopping up gravy with a lump of bread, Uncle Denis had flowed on. "That'll have given the bookies a nasty turn! Every year, you know, people put bets on it snowing for Christmas." He stirred his tea noisily and added as a generous afterthought, "But nasty for you, Lib. Driving on those coun­try roads."

"I'm better off in the van than the people who have the town walks and deliver on foot," Libby had said, hoping that by replying she would stop him clattering his spoon against his tea-cup.

Uncle Denis, as usual, rolled over her comment. His con­versations were always conducted for his own benefit.

"Yes, the bookies will get a fright, no mistake!"

He chortled, slurping up tea at the same time, so that he had to put the cup down, coughing. The tips of his moustache, which had been trapped, trickled moisture, and he looked more than usually like a walrus on an iceflow.

His sister and niece both winced. Mrs. Hancock said tartly, "Well, you'd know how bookies' minds work if anyone does!" In a different voice she added, "You'll have to wrap up warm, Libby, if it does keep cold like this. I wish you had a job indoors all the time. I worry about you in the winter, turning out on the dark mornings and everything."

She gave Denis a meaningful look, indicating it would be nice if he had a job of any sort.

Uncle Denis's acquaintance with the betting fraternity was of long duration. Some years ago it had led to his wife di­vorcing him. Finding himself temporarily without a roof, he had come to stay with his married sister: "As a stop-gap, until I find a place of my own."

The stop-gap had already lasted two years when Libby's father died. Uncle Denis had then nobly volunteered to go on living with them so that he could look after his widowed sister and her little girl.

The little girl was now twenty-four and Uncle Denis was still in residence. They'd become inured to the sight of his bald head, florid features, drooping mustache and flabby paunch. To say nothing of his fondness for personal jewelry and unsuitably youthful leather bomber jackets. They didn't ask where he got his money. Frankly, neither of them wanted to know. He didn't work. His social benefits, apart from er­ratic amounts paid to his sister for his keep, went into the pockets of bookmakers and publicans. Occasionally he was, in his own term, "flush" and then he was embarrassingly generous. Nags romping home first past the post would ac­count for this, of course, but somehow Libby didn't think so. Despite assiduously studying form in the sporting press, Un­cle Denis didn't appear to have an eye for a winner.

She mused about all these things as she drove the little red post office van carefully along the B road toward the hamlet of Castle Darcy. It would be nice to be rid of Uncle Denis. Plotting ingenious means of getting rid of him had harmlessly occupied Libby's mind on many occasions as she made the twenty-five-mile round trip delivering mail to outlying com­munities. No Denis. It would give her mother a chance to make new friends. Herself, she'd no longer have to dread the way he always embarrassed her in front of hers. And they'd both be spared his table manners.

Uncle Denis's meteorological predictions had proved right. This morning had seen a second hard frost. In sheltered spots where it hadn't melted away from yesterday, a thick white layer had built up, transforming the bare winter countryside. The first sun's rays revealed the silvery lace of spiders' webs veiling the bare twigs of wayside bushes. The outstretched white fingers of oaks and horse chestnuts lining the road glit­tered like the tinsel branches of Christmas trees in a season­ally dressed store window.

In Libby's fancy the house roofs and gables became the iced gingerbread dwelling of Hansel and Gretel's witch. Right down to bare damp patches in the area of chimneystacks marking the location of early morning fires below. The witch preparing to cook little children. But only in pantomime.

"She isn't real, children!" A voice echoed down the years in Libby's head. Wailing infants in the audience paused in their terror, hesitating, wondering whether to believe the good fairy.

"She isn't real!" promised a chorus of accompanying par­ents and aunts.

But she looked real. Oh my, yes, thought Libby. A man in drag, of course. She knew that now. A man who, in his own clothes, probably resembled Uncle Denis. But what a witch he made! With the tangled gray hair, striped stockings and pointed hat. But, in the end, Hansel pushed the witch into her own oven. Hansel's death would have been murder, but the witch's was justice. How we wanted her dead, Libby remem­bered. How we wanted the threat destroyed! In the end, every­thing turned out right.

"Christmassy!" said Libby aloud and felt happy.

The council lorry had been along the day before and gritted the road; usually these minor roads were forgotten and turned into something resembling the Cresta Run. Libby was duly grateful. The council had shown itself less efficient with all year around maintenance of the road surface itself. The van bumped its way over small holes and cracks past the first dwellings and came to a halt before a pair of low-roofed cot­tages set back from the roadside behind long front gardens.

Libby switched off the engine, pulled on the woolly gloves her mother had insisted she bring, and opened the door. Her breath formed vapor clouds on the chill crisp air which seeped in. There was no one about. Most people were still only having breakfast, she thought.

Few households got up at crack of dawn as theirs did. Her job required rising early. People expected their letters to ar­rive with the breakfast bacon and eggs. Mrs. Hancock was a light sleeper and glad to get up to see her daughter off to work, although Libby had repeatedly begged her not to bother. But there was another reason why Mrs. Hancock was in the kitchen before dawn.

Uncle Denis, thank goodness, found four in the morning an ungodly hour to rise and slumbered on heedlessly. The shared early morning cups of tea and toast in the warm kitchen were treasured by Libby and her mother. The absence of Denis was never mentioned, any more than his presence was. But occasionally, a faint snore from the bedroom above would permeate down and they'd exchange furtive grins.

Libby leaned across to the front passenger seat where she'd deposited the little stack of mail for Castle Darcy. She had put the items for these cottages on the top of the pile. One of them, a package addressed to the right-hand Cottage, had been sent by recorded delivery and required a signature. There was another package secured by an elastic band to a couple of envelopes, which was intended for the left-hand cottage. Libby took them both together with her clipboard and got out of the van.

Her sturdy footwear bruised spikes of frosted grass en route to the first gate. As she made her way up the path to the door she heard a faint bleat from somewhere behind the cottage. She wondered whether Mr. Bodicote was out back with his goats and she'd have to make her way around there to get the required signature. She'd been making the postal deliveries for two years now and knew quite a few of her regulars. She rapped on his door.

A curtain twitched at the window. After a moment, a door-chain rattled and a minimal crack appeared. A thin, elderly face pressed against it, showing only one eye and a corner of wrinkled mouth above a whiskery chin.

"Post!" called Libby, adding less obviously, "I need a signature, Mr. Bodicote."

"What for?" The question was issued in a fierce voice.

"Recorded delivery. This package." She held it up and then waggled the clipboard.

The withered lips moved again as an eyelid drooped suspiciously above the visible eye. "Who's it from? Does it say?"

Libby sighed and turned the package over. "A Mrs. Sutton."

"Ah, that's my niece, Maureen." The chain was released and the door opened fully. Mr. Bodicote was revealed.

He must have been a tall man once, but age had shrunk him. The habit which height had given him, of stooping be­neath low lintels, hadn't been lost. He hunched now as he moved forward, although it was no longer necessary. He was wearing an ancient jacket stretched over two woolly pullovers and, to be on the safe side, a tweed cap. None of the clothing disguised how thin he was. He stretched out covetous scaly talons, tipped with yellowed nails.

The witch! An echo of her earlier daydreaming returned with a frightening suddenness. Libby's heart gave a leap. Then she grinned sheepishly at the old man.

"That'll be her Christmas present for me." Bodicote sounded much more amiable. "She never forgets me, Mau­reen. She's a good girl. And she always posts early for Christ­mas, just like they tell you to."

"Wish everyone did!" said Libby, holding out the clip­board and maintaining the package out of his reach. "Sign here, please, and print your name underneath in capitals."

"I'll have to go and get my glasses." Disappointed at the delay, he padded away into some unseen region. He was gone a few minutes during which Libby stamped her feet and became aware that her post office issue navy jacket wasn't as warm as she'd thought it was. She could see down the cot­tage's narrow hall straight through into the kitchen at the back. She could make out an ancient stove and, on it, a pan bubbling. A huge pan, too big to prepare any human meal! The witch, the witch ... A strange bran and vegetable odor wafted down the hall to Libby's nostrils.

"The goats!" she muttered. "He's boiling up mash for the goats. Pull yourself together, Lib! You'll be seeing goblins next!"

"Here we are." Mr. Bodicote was back, fixing his spec­tacles. The tortoiseshell frames were mended with pink stick­ing plaster. He studied the clipboard and wrote his name carefully. His handwriting was surprisingly clear. He'd learned to write when children were made to practice "hooks." Age had made him a little shaky, but the copper­plate letters were still beautifully formed.

"You'll have to excuse me, my dear," he went on. "Hav­ing the door locked up like it in broad daylight. I never thought I'd have to do it, but I've got enemies."

Mr. Bodicote had been pronouncing unlikely statements ever since Libby had been bringing the post.

"I heard the goats as I came up the path," said Libby, overlooking the latest eccentric claim. She exchanged the package for her clipboard. "Cold for them outside this morn­ing."

He was shocked. "They're not out of doors, not today!" He whisked the package from her. "Except for the old billy, Jasper. He starts kicking the door if I don't let him out first thing. I had to put a bolt on the outside of his house. Any kind of latch within his reach, old Jasper can undo. But I haven't let the nannies out. This cold weather don't suit them. They need looking after, do goats, if you want a good yield. I keep 'em in and make sure they got plenty of feed. But the old billy raises merry hell if 1 don't let him out in the pad­dock, come rain or shine."

He leaned forward. "I got to keep a close eye on them. Folk have tried to poison them, you know."

"Surely not!" said Libby, knowing that she shouldn't let herself be drawn into this. She had a whole round to get through, several villages. More likely, if the goats had been ill it was because they had nibbled laurel or some other un­suitable plant.

Mr. Bodicote was fortunately distracted, peering at the ad­dress on his parcel. "Maureen sent it," he repeated. "And always by the recorded delivery to make sure I get it!" With that, he closed the door in her face. She heard the chain rattle.

Libby retraced her steps, automatically following the im­print left on the crust of frost by her approach. The poor old chap was getting pottier. Such a shame. She crunched down the path to the second cottage, slipping the elastic band from the bundle as she went and checking the address on the two envelopes.

There were clear indications of a different lifestyle here. An adjacent barn appeared to have been turned into a two-car garage. Also an extension had been built onto the side of the cottage itself. The addition was modern, single-story, flat-roofed and spoilt the symmetry of the old building. The build­ers had left behind a pile of rubble, planks and general debris which was stacked to the rear of the barn-garage, in an angle formed by the garden hedge. The rubbish heap was covered with a white layer just like everything else. Libby glanced at it with mild disapproval. She was thinking how untidy it nor­mally looked, without its frosted blanket, and wondering whether it would stay like that till spring. She rang the bell.

Inside the cottage, Sally Caswell was tightening the top on a vacuum flask of hot coffee. She looked out of the kitchen window as she did, and noticed that old Bodicote had let out one of the goats, the big brown and white one with the curved horns. Despite repeated requests to the old man to put the animal on a running tether, it was roaming loose about its paddock. She hoped it didn't eat its way through the party hedge and into their garden. Not again. Liam would go mad if it happened again. He'd already threatened to put the matter into the hands of their solicitors and she really thought he would.

Only two days ago that same billy-goat had got through the hedge by dislodging a sheet of corrugated iron from one of the patched areas. It had wandered right up to the new extension where Liam had his study and peered in the win­dow. Poor Liam had looked up from the screen to see a bearded, horned face only inches away, watching him intently from the slit pupils of chalky-blue eyes.

"Enough to give anyone the screaming habdabs!" he'd said afterwards. At the time, he'd let out a yell like a man possessed, rushed outside, picked up a lump of rock from the pile of unused hardcore left by the builders and shied it at the beast.

Unfortunately, old Mr. Bodicote had seen him do it and a very nasty scene had ensued. It was at the end of that exchange that Liam had threatened his elderly neighbor with the law.

Unrepentent and unbowed, Mr. Bodicote had merely ob­served that, "Town folk like you and your missus have got no business in the country! You wants to go back to London, you do!"

A chance would be a fine thing! thought Sally, a little sourly.

Going back to London or its environs had ceased to be an option, not only with the sale of their tiny Fulham terraced house, but with the other sale of Aunt Emily's rambling mock Tudor Englefield Green villa. Sally had inherited the villa on Emily's death some eighteen months before and was sorry now that they'd sold it. But Liam had been keen to get rid of it. They'd received a fair offer which, so Liam argued, they'd be foolish to turn down. The villa was in urgent need of structural repairs and modernization. The present property market meant that they mightn't get another offer soon. It had been nice, of course, to get the money, but Sally had grown up in that house. It had been a place where she'd been secure, loved and happy. She felt now that Liam had rushed her into selling.

But it was over and done and there was no use moping about it. Holding the flask, Sally set out for the study, but before she got there, the doorbell rang.

"Morning, Mrs. Caswell!" said Libby, handing over the package and the two envelopes. "This looks to have more postage on it than it needs. Someone's guessed instead of taking it to the post office to be weighed. Always best to take things along to the post office and get it right. Might save yourself some money!"

Sally took the padded mailbag indicated and the letters. She didn't recognize the printed handwriting on the package. She had herself sometimes popped things into a postbox with extra postage to be on the safe side, when she hadn't been able to get to the nearest sub post office, which was at Cherton.

"You haven't seen Mr. Bodicote this morning, have you?" she asked Libby. Receiving an affirmative, Sally added ner­vously, "What sort of mood is he in?''

"All right!" said Libby. "Quite cheerful. No odder than usual."

Sally proceeded on her way to the study, the vacuum flask clasped against her breast as she studied the mail.

Liam was seated at his computer, glaring at the monitor.

"I've brought your coffee," she said. "It's very frosty out there again and a good job you didn't go to Norwich yester­day. I've just heard on the radio there's freezing fog on the East Coast. At least we haven't got that. Just think, if you'd been driving back today!"

"I didn't not go to Norwich because of the weather," Liam mumbled, punching at the keyboard. "I didn't go because Jefferson rang up and said he had to reschedule everything. The Russians have been delayed. So there wasn't much point."

"Good job you hadn't set out, then. I mean, ringing up here at the last minute like that!" She held out the mail. "These look like Christmas cards. It's only the first week in December. I haven't even bought mine. The package is ad­dressed just 'Caswell.' I suppose it's for you. I'm not ex­pecting anything. London postmark."

"I can't be bothered with it now!" he said tetchily.

Oh dear, she thought. What's put him in a bad mood? Be­cause he couldn't go off for his scientific beano in Norwich, I suppose. She kept her tone resolutely bright. "Shall I leave it here? By the flask?"

"No!" He spun round. "Take it away! I said, I can't be bothered with it! I thought I heard a goat! Has he let them out again?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. "But only one of them." Hes­itantly, she went on, "I suppose he is entitled to let them out into his own paddock."

"But not into my garden!" said her husband through grit­ted teeth.

It occurred to her that she could have corrected him. It was her garden, actually. She'd bought this cottage. But she said, "He did patch up the hedge again."

"Yes! He patched it with an old bedstead this time! Now it looks bloody awful, worse than the iron sheeting, and the goats will only eat through somewhere else!"

"Shall I pour your coffee?" she asked placatingly.

"No! Leave it there! I'll pour it out when I'm ready!"

"Some sort of problem?" She tried to sound sympathetic.

He grunted. "I'll have to go to Oxford, to the lab, tomor­row. Might even go later on today. We'll have to reschedule everything to do with the Russians' visit." He glanced at the vacuum flask. "Just leave it there. And take away the mail. Deal with it yourself."

"But it's a video." She held out the package. "Although it's a bit on the heavy side for a videotape. But it says so, on the front. Did you order a video?"

"No! It'll be some moronic Christmas present! And I'm not going to stop what I'm doing and run a video right now, am I? Take it away!"

She accepted rejection. It was the easiest thing to do when he was in this mood. "All right. I'm just going to make my hot drink and then I'm driving into work. I'll be back late-ish. It's preview day for tomorrow's sale. I want to talk to Austin about Aunt Emily's things, too. He did say he'd come out and give me a valuation this week but with the sale I suppose he's been too busy."

He grunted and hunched over his computer.

"Oh, and Meredith said she'd call by the saleroom. She wants to take a look. I told her we had some rather nice Victorian wine glasses. She may put in a sealed bid. And then we might have a bit of lunch together.''

Liam clutched his head. "For Chrissake! Will you just go and do whatever you want to do and leave me in peace?"

She went back to the kitchen and switched on the kettle to make up her own flask to take into work with her. Her round snub-nosed face was uncharacteristically despondent. She was a healthily attractive young woman. Her flyaway fair hair was secured by an Alice band and she was comfortably dressed in pleated skirt and sweater over a shirt, with thick winter tights and flat shoes. Country lifestyle suited her. She had been instrumental in persuading Liam that the cottage would be ideal. He could concentrate on writing the book, for which purpose he'd arranged to spend only part of his working week at the lab and the rest at home. She, in her spare time, could garden.

But it hadn't really worked out. Liam couldn't get on with the country. It bothered him. The goats were an example. She didn't really mind the goats, although it was true old Bodicote did nothing to prevent them straying into the Caswells' gar­den. She suspected it was part of a systematic harassment designed to drive away his new neighbors. She'd thought once that the old man quite liked her, if not Liam. But then there'd been that unfortunate matter of the turnips.

"Thank God I've got a job to go to!" Sally thought. Im­mediately she felt guilty. She loved her husband but some days he was impossible. What with Liam hating the cottage and nothing having worked out as hoped, little wonder she'd been suffering from stress. Getting away, going in to Bamford to her job had kept her sane.

She got other occasional breaks when Liam went over to Norwich. Despite being preoccupied with the book, he still kept an eye on the exchange student program run by his Ox­ford research laboratory and one engaged on similar work in Norfolk. Now events had interfered with his latest trip, prob­ably causing the bad temper, and depriving her of what she'd come to view almost as Liam-free breaks.

She moved across to a worktop on which stood a row of stoppered glazed pottery jars, each carefully labeled. She didn't drink coffee or ordinary tea, but had a liking for herbal tea. Here in the country she could make her own. In the sum­mer she used suitable fresh leaves or flowerheads picked in her garden, poured on boiling water and let the whole mix steep, finally adding a good tablespoon of honey and straining off the resultant brew. Also in summer, she dried racks of leaves in her airing cupboard so that in winter she still had a supply, although the tea lacked the flavor of fresh ingredients. You had to know what you were doing, of course, and be careful only to pick the plants suitable for tea-making.

Liam disapproved of her home-blended teas. But then, Liam seemed to disapprove of most things she did. "You don't know what you're drinking!" he sometimes said. To which she would reply, "Yes, I do. I know better than you do!"

On days when she went into Bamford to her part-time job, she took along her "tea" in a flask, leaving Liam his flask of coffee. She now set about preparing her own brew and, while the kettle heated, sat at the table to open the two en­velopes. As expected, they contained early Christmas cards. She must remember to buy a couple of packs whilst she was in Bamford today. She turned her attention to the package.

It was the popular sort of padded mailbag, and addressed simply in printed capitals caswell. The word video was also printed on by hand. She had no idea who'd sent it. There was no indication apart from the central London postmark. She picked it up; gave it an experimental shake. The kettle began to hiss. She glanced at it, then back at the package in her hand, hesitating. The kettle gave a loud click. Sally put down the padded mailbag, got up and started toward the worktop where the kettle stood.

Crump! Behind her came an explosion similar to those she recalled from childhood when the unswept chimneys of coal fires caught alight. What began as a throaty snarl finished as a triumphant rending noise, as if some penned creature had burst loose. It was accompanied by a pressure in her ears. A balled fist hit her in the middle of the spine and pitched her forward to strike her head on the cupboard edge. A bright flash lit up the gloomy winter kitchen. Things were happening all around and all at once, yet she was conscious of each, distinctly. Plates crashed down from a shelf. Small pieces of debris whizzed through the air, one sheering through the win­dow sending shattered shards of glass tinkling down, some outside and some inside the room. Smoke rolled up from the area of the table, hiding it from view. It filled the kitchen and was accompanied by an acrid stench of melted plastic and scorched wood varnish.

Bewildered and temporarily disoriented, she lay slumped across a worktop, her fingers still clutching the handle of the electric kettle. Miraculously it had remained upright, saving her from being badly scalded. The burning odor increased. Smoke got into her lungs making her cough and retch. She released the kettle and pressed her hands to her mouth and nose. She saw, and for some reason it distressed her more than anything else, that the dried herbs had spilled from the pottery jar. As she watched, the jar itself rolled over the edge of the worktop and crashed onto the floor, breaking into half a dozen pieces, ruined. Through it all she heard her husband's voice. It came from the kitchen door.

"What the dickens have you done now? Am I going to get no peace at all?"

Sally pushed herself upright and turned, leaning against the worktop for support. A trickle of blood ran down her fore­head, along the bridge of her nose and dripped scarlet spots on her sweater. Through the smoke she could see his outline in the doorway.

Spluttering, she denied the accusation. "I didn't do any­thing."

"What's happened here?" He was moving forward, toward the table, his hand outstretched.

She came to life, jerking herself away from the worktop and lurching forward. "Don't! Don't touch it!"

He stopped at the shrill note of panic in her voice and stared down at the pine table in a perplexed way.

"The package..." she croaked. "It was the package..."

"What package?"

That was Liam for you. When he was writing, nothing else registered at all. But perhaps he could be forgiven the ques­tion because there was little left of the package. Only where it had lain, a dreadful, sinister burned circle.

She lost her temper in fear, anger and bewilderment. "The one supposed to contain a video! I showed it to you not ten minutes ago! For crying out loud, forget that wretched book for a while! It wasn't a video at all! It was a letter-bomb, don't you understand? Those animal rights' extremists sent you a letter-bomb! The ones who broke into your lab last year! It must be them!"

He opened his mouth and she was sure he was going to say, "Rubbish!" But he couldn't deny that the center of the table was burned black and there were scraps of smoldering paper and broken plastic and wire lying around.

He seemed to become aware of her appearance. "You all right?"

"I think so. I banged my head." She touched her forehead gingerly. "I was so lucky. Liam! I was going to open it. I even shook it, for heaven's sake! The kettle switched itself off and I got up. Otherwise I'd—" She fell silent.

He stood with his hands hanging loosely by his sides, his face with the boyish features which always made him look younger than his thirty-eight years, twisted in puzzled dis­belief.

"It couldn't be," he said without any conviction.

"It was! Whoever sent it could have blinded you, Liam! You could have been horribly disfigured! We've got to call the police!"



*2*
Meredith Mitchell had been on sickness leave from her For­eign Office desk for the past two weeks, following a partic­ularly virulent attack of influenza which had struck her down in mid-November. She hadn't suffered from 'flu for years and had forgotten just how devastating it could be. There was no question of returning to work yet. Needless to say, she hadn't sought the preventive jabs earlier in the year.

"Not," said Dr. Pringle kindly, "that it would have made much difference in your case. This is a new 'flu-type. Every few years we get one."

Stay in bed, drink gallons of liquids and sweat it out had been his advice. He'd scribbled out a prescription to alleviate the head and joint aches and that pretty well had been that.

She'd followed his advice, being able to do little else. From her pillows she'd memorized the cracks in the ceiling and formed inchoate plans to get up there and do something about them. There were cobwebs up there too, dangling in the cor­ners and undulating in the draughts. Another thing to do something about. She had grown, during her bed-bound sick­ness, to dislike the ceiling intensely. It was a memo-pad of domestic chores. No inspirational ideas sprang from it. No encouragement to deep reflections on the Meaning of Life. No ghostly finger obligingly sketched out any portent. No Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin. Just a cracked Victorian ceiling and, probably, some very dodgy wiring in the electric light, all prodding her conscience just when she was least able to resist their nagging.

The final straw had been Mrs. Harmer's cooking. Mrs. Harmer was housekeeper to their vicar, James Holland. James, being currently out of town, had kindly "loaned" Mrs. Harmer to the invalid and, again, Meredith had been too de­bilitated to resist.

This meant that Mrs. Harmer had arrived at eight every morning, slammed the front door and clumped in winter boots down the narrow hall to the kitchen, bawling, "It's all right, Miss Mitchell, it's only me!"

She had then brewed tea and made porridge for Meredith's breakfast.

"A good breakfast sets you up for the day. Especially if a body is picking at food like you are. At least you know you've got something solid in your stomach."

The porridge was solid, all right, probably just the thing for plastering up those cracks on the ceiling. But it was edible and by far the best item on Mrs. Harmer's invalid menu. The menu had been worse than all the symptoms of 'flu put to­gether.

Not for Mrs. H. the latest notions on nutrition. "Fads!" she called them scornfully. If you were ill, according to Mrs. Harmer, what you needed was plenty of plainly cooked fish. It was good for the brain. Rice pudding was also good for you, it seemed. Poached eggs, horribly underdone and glassy, sitting on soggy toast were excellent. Not so, boiled eggs. "Binding!" said Mrs. Harmer mysteriously.

Coffee was deemed bad for the nerves. "Oxo!" declared Mrs. Harmer, plunking down huge mugs of this nourishing beef extract brew.

During Mrs. Harmer's well-meant ministrations, the house stank of boiled cod, baked milky rice and Oxo. One positive result from all this was that it encouraged one to get better as soon as possible. When the day came that Mrs. Harmer could be dispatched to the vicarage, Meredith had ungrate­fully felt like cheering.

Now the symptoms had subsided. But they'd left behind a disconcerting weakness in the legs and, unsurprisingly in the wake of all that plain fish and beef extract, a disinclination to eat. Nevertheless, today Meredith was up and about early. Sally Caswell, who worked at Bailey and Bailey, the local auctioneers, had told her that among items to be inspected during today's preview of tomorrow's auction was a set of Victorian wine glasses.

"Just the sort of thing you said you wanted, Meredith."

It was true, she had mentioned Victorian glassware some time ago, and Sally had promised to keep a lookout. Gener­ally, Meredith's cramped end-of-terrace cottage did not lend itself to the accumulation of antiques. Her sole foray to date in that direction had been the acquisition of a Welsh dresser and the adventures attendant on that had perhaps put her off adding to it. But today she was going along to take a look and, afterwards, have a bite of lunch with Sally. Not that the appetite was back yet, but a bowl of soup or something would be nice.

Meredith clattered down the stairs to the kitchen, feeling quite cheerful. She ran water into the kettle and peered through the kitchen window at her backyard. It looked cold out there, but bright. Something moved, catching her eye, a shadow in the far corner behind the disused coal-bunker, where the frost still lay up. It was the cat.

The cat was a stray and had been around for about two weeks, on and off. Its general condition was skinny and battle-scarred but it was a young animal, a tabby. She liked tabbies.

It might have been around longer and Meredith, away at the office all day, hadn't noticed it. It was only during the enforced sick leave that she'd become aware of it. She didn't know whether it had been abandoned and was seeking out a new and comfortable home, or whether it was genuinely wild, but she suspected that it had been turned out by an uncaring owner. It was nervous. It didn't respond to friendly overtures. But she didn't like to see any animal so thin. Mrs. Harmer had obligingly stocked the freezer with frozen fishsteaks, and Meredith had taken to cooking them up and feeding them, piece by piece, to the cat. This could only be done at a dis­tance because it refused to come near or let her approach, even tempted by the smell of cod. She had to leave the scene. When she returned, the food would be gone. It was an ex­cellent way of getting rid of the fish without wasting it. The cat was definitely a Good Cause.

Meredith took a plastic tub of previously cooked cod from the fridge, opened the back door and stepped out into a biting wind. She scraped the fish onto a saucer and called the cat. But it disobligingly scuttled back over the wall. Meredith re­treated, leaving the fish. Presumably, as before, it would come back. Not only that cat, but every other cat in the neighbor­hood.

Half an hour later saw her driving into the car park of the town's auction rooms. She locked her car and made her way across the irregularly shaped yard toward the open doors of a rambling building of weathered stone. The place showed signs that it might once have been a livery stable. But now above the oak lintel was a sign—itself probably two gener­ations old at least—which read:


BAILEY AND BAILEY
Valuers and Auctioneers
House Clearances Antique furniture and memorabilia
A poster tacked on a notice board on the wall announced the forthcoming Christmas Auction Sale. Preparations were clearly underway. Passage into the auction rooms was blocked by a bow-fronted walnut chest-of-drawers. On her side of it, outside the building, stood a stocky man in a baize apron, arms akimbo. At the further side of it, inside the build­ing, and only his head and chest visible, was a pale youth wearing a baseball cap.

"We'll have to turn it sideways on, Ronnie!" said the stocky man.

"Take the drawers out," opined Baseball Cap.

"No need to, just run this bit of rope around it, the drawers won't fall out."

"For Pete's sake!" cried a voice from somewhere inside. "Take the drawers out! And mind the corners! That's an early Victorian piece!"

"Don't you worry yourself, Mr. Bailey," rumbled the first man. "You leave it to me and Ronnie."

The walnut chest began to rock as it was heaved "sideways on."

"Right! Lift your end, Ted!" cried Baseball Cap.

"Watch the drawers!" howled the unseen owner of the voice within the building.

"We're putting a rope around her!" shouted back Baseball Cap. "Not you, dear!" he added to Meredith, who stood by as interested observer. He winked and took off his cap long enough to scratch his head. When he did, it could be seen that he was older than his first appearance suggested. The wearing of the cap was less a youthful fashion fad than to disguise thinning hair.

The piece of furniture, secured, was inched through the gap and Meredith followed it inside.

She found herself in a large low room. She blinked and when her eyes had become adjusted to the dim light, saw that stacked around her was all manner of furniture, bric-a-brac, pictures, books and mysterious boxes with unidentified con­tents. Ronnie and Ted had set down their burden on the far­ther side of the room and it was being examined anxiously by the owner of the third voice.

He was a tall, thin man, whose gold-rimmed spectacles and collar-length graying hair lent him an academic appearance. He wore a Prince of Wales check suit of old-fashioned cut and, in contrast, a rather jazzy bow tie. Meredith knew this to be Austin Bailey and that he was, despite the legend over the door, the only Bailey at present connected with the busi­ness. Clearly he was occupied for the moment.

She left him peering at the chest and made her way through the jumble of furniture, past trestle tables of china and glass, casting an occasional curious glance at begrimed oil paintings and damp-spotted prints, and finally into a tiny office at the rear of the room.

The office was empty. She had expected to find Sally Caswell in it. But she supposed Sally had stepped out for a mo­ment, though the little sanctum had an abandoned air to it that suggested no one had been there that morning. No sign of any personal belongings, no coat hanging on its hook, not even Sally's vacuum flask. The computer was switched off and cold. It was very odd.

There were two stacks of printed sheets on the desk. Mer­edith took a leaflet from the first pile.

Like the poster outside, it announced the Christmas auc­tion sale and went on to list items of special interest from furniture and books to garden statuary. It included the walnut chest she had just seen manhandled into place. She turned over the next page. All the items to be auctioned the following day were numbered off in lots. She ran a finger down the page until she found the glasses that had interested her. Lot 124. Six Victorian wine glasses. She went back into the main room.

Austin Bailey was now alone, mopping his forehead with a large spotted handkerchief. Apparently the chest-of-drawers had suffered no harm. Ronnie and Ted had departed on other business. Austin looked up and saw her.

"Oh, Meredith! So sorry, didn't see you. How are you?" He tucked the handkerchief in his pocket and held out his distinctly dusty hand. He suddenly became aware of its state and withdrew it before she could grasp it.

"Sorry!" he said. "Been moving stuff around."

"Everything here now?" She indicated their surroundings. It hardly seemed there would be room for anything else.

"I think so. I was expecting a set of chairs..." He frowned. "The woman said she could get them over here today. I told her if she wanted them in the sale ..." He fixed Meredith with a stern eye. "They are listed in that!"

She realized he meant the catalog in her hand. "I was rather interested in the wine glasses," she said. "Where are they?"

He led her past a large Benares brass gong on a stand to a table laden with all manner of glassware and odd items as­sociated with drink. Pewter tankards, stoneware jugs, a pair of Bavarian beermugs with lids, a wooden wine cooler.

Two or three people had come in and were wandering around looking at items, including a bearded man in a sheep­skin coat who was examining a small writing desk with the air of an expert fault-finder. Austin Bailey cast him a wary glance.

"Got a green form?" Austin asked Meredith absently. "You can write in a bid on a green form today and you needn't come and bid tomorrow. Unless you want to come and see the fun. You might be outbid in the actual auction, that's the risk. Ten percent buyer's premium, don't forget."

"I'll take one before I go. I actually hoped to see Sally. Isn't she here today?"

The sheepskin-coated man had moved on to a dining table. The other people, a husband and wife, were gazing doubtfully at one of the paintings, nymphs in a glade, yellowed with old varnish and encased in an ornate carved frame.

"It's a bit big for the lounge, Frank," said the wife.

"Show up better, then, wouldn't it?" said Frank.

"I don't know as I want naked women hanging over my fireplace, Frank. It's not nice, somehow."

"That's art," said Frank, the connoisseur.

Austin Bailey sighed. He rubbed his dusty palms together and gazed down at them in a puzzled manner as if wondering why the dirt still hadn't shifted.

"Sally and I'd arranged to have lunch together," Meredith persisted. "So I expected to meet her here."

"Oh, dear." Austin's worried expression became more marked. "I don't think she'll be coming in today. It's a nui­sance because of all this ... It's viewing until half past four this afternoon and we need everyone we can get. The public wandering in and out, you see. We need as many bodies on the floor as we can muster."

She understood his security problem and said so, before prompting again, "Sally?"

"Oh, yes. She phoned. That is, she didn't but her husband did. About half an hour ago. It seems they had a bit of trouble at the cottage this morning."

"Oh?" That sounded ominous, especially if it had been Liam who'd phoned and not Sally herself. Liam didn't nor­mally concern himself with domestic matters. Nor had Sally contacted Meredith, despite their lunch date, and Sally was meticulous in that sort of courtesy.

"I think they had a gas explosion or something," said Aus­tin Bailey vaguely. He stared down at his hands again. "I'll have to go and wash these. Excuse me, won't you?''

"Austin!" Meredith dodged the brass gong, a seated stone grayhound and a knobbly, awkward piece of furniture de­signed to accommodate an Edwardian family's coats, hats, umbrellas and walking sticks. "A gas explosion? Is anyone hurt? I mean, how bad an explosion?"

Whole houses had been demolished by explosions from leaking gas appliances or fractured pipes before now.

"No one's hurt. Only shocked, you know. Sally got a fright, poor dear. But she's all right." Austin assured her earnestly. "I asked Liam. It was in the kitchen. Liam wasn't precise. I suppose they'll have to wait until the Gas Board gets there and sorts it out."

Austin dived into Sally's office which they were just pass­ing and emerged with a green form from the second of two piles of papers on the desk. "Here, write your bid on this and leave it with me—or if I'm not around with Ronnie or Ted—No, no, madam! Don't leave it there!" He hurried away to deal with an emergency.

She hadn't inquired about a reserve price on the glasses. She scribbled the maximum she was prepared to pay, put the lot number, her name, address and phone number, and handed the folded sheet to Ronnie who had just returned. Austin and Ted were gazing at a virulently hued painting of the bridges of Paris, held up by a large lady.

"You sell paintings for people, don't you?" demanded the would-be vendor.

"In principle, yes," said Austin, gazing at the picture with some dismay.

"I've got to go." Meredith said to Ronnie, since Austin was clearly occupied, "Would you mind giving this to Mr. Bailey? Thanks. You, er, you haven't heard anything about Mrs. Caswell this morning, have you?'' She pressed the green form into Ronnie's hand.

"Kitchen cooker!" said Ronnie, taking the green sheet and opening it. He pushed the baseball cap to the back of his head and studied what she'd written. Viewed even closer and capless, he now appeared around fifty.

"Is that not enough?" she asked anxiously. "Or too much? I don't know the reserve."

"You never know," he said. "Depends if anyone else wants 'em. Should think it's about right."

"You're sure it was the kitchen cooker?" That did sound serious.

"Either that or the boiler," said Ronnie.

Ted had abandoned Austin and the large lady. He appeared carrying a cardboard box containing what looked like assorted china ornaments.

"Mrs. Caswell?" he puffed. "Bathroom geyser, wasn't it? Here, that woman's brought them chairs. Where're we going to put them?"

It was clear, if she wanted to know what happened at the Caswells' cottage that morning, she had to drive out there herself. Meredith went out and got back in her car. She just hoped everyone was safe and sound.


It wasn't cooker, boiler nor even geyser.

"It was a letter-bomb!" Sally Caswell whispered.

"Hell's teeth!" Meredith said and afterwards wondered she hadn't said anything stronger.

She had, however, been expecting something dramatic. The first thing she'd seen as she drove up to the cottage earlier was a police car parked outside the door and another further down the lane. A white van, which she'd first taken for a Gas Board vehicle, was seen, when she got out of the car, to be marked ominously bomb disposal unit. A small gathering of villagers hung about at a safe distance, whispering to­gether.

Alarmed, Meredith had hurried to the gate to find her way barred by a police officer. But, just at that moment, Liam had appeared in the doorway and at his insistence she'd been allowed to enter.

Liam had his reason for wanting her there. "Sally's in a state," he said. "See what you can do, Meredith, can't you?"

She'd found Sally Caswell sitting on a sofa in the tiny drawing room before an electric fire. An injury to her fore­head had been administered to in a makeshift fashion with a strip of plaster. She was gripping a glass of brandy whilst Liam mooched about scowling in the background. From the kitchen came the sound of voices and movement.

"The police!" she went on in the same low voice. "And explosive experts. Forensics as well. Everyone! They're tak­ing away all the bits of debris. There wasn't much left of the package. But I think they can tell what sort of explosive was used from the way it—it exploded." She gestured wildly. The brandy slopped in the balloon glass. "They took photographs of the t-table and k-kitchen..."

"Are you sure you're all right, Sally?" Meredith asked in concern. She glanced at Liam as she spoke, but Liam was brooding darkly on his own problems.

Sally croaked, "I'm fine, honestly. Liam stuck on a plaster dressing for me. It had stopped bleeding. I was really lucky. There was broken glass everywhere. I do still feel a bit shaky and for some reason, I'm so cold." She shivered.

"That's shock," Meredith said. "Try and take it easy: Have they been asking questions?"

"They tried. I wasn't much used to them. I really couldn't tell them anything. It was so sudden and I'd turned away just before—It was a package just like any other, except that it was addressed simply 'Caswell.' Liam was busy so I opened it."

Hearing his name, Liam announced loudly, "I don't know how I'm expected to get any work done today with that lot swarming over the place!"

Meredith pushed back a hank of dark brown hair which had fallen over her face and glared at him in some exasper­ation. She had known the Caswells for some years. There had been a gap in the acquaintance during the years Meredith had spent abroad as a British consul. Now back in England for good (unless the FO relented which it showed no sign of doing) they had all met up again.

Meredith liked Sally very much. Liam, she had always found irritating. In the wake of today's events, he was an­noying her more than usual. Even allowing for shock, it was difficult to drum up sympathy for him. His wife could have been seriously hurt. Blinded or burned. But all that seemed to worry him was that it was holding up his work!

"I did ask Liam to call you, Meredith," Sally's voice was marginally louder. "But he forgot in all the fuss. I'm so sorry I stood you up over lunch."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not greatly into lunching these days, anyway. I called at the auction rooms and saw Austin. He seemed to think it was a gas explosion. I was expecting to find the cottage reduced to rubble!"

Sally began to show increased signs of agitation. "I ought to go in to work! It's the sale tomorrow!"

"Nonsense! Austin doesn't expect it. Everything is under control there. Just relax."

"We've got to wait here, anyway," Liam Caswell growled. "Some other policeman is coming, someone more senior. I suppose we're going to be pestered for days by coppers!" He strode out.

"The book's going badly," Sally explained. But Meredith noticed that as soon as Liam left the room, his wife's manner relaxed and her voice steadied. "Poor Liam, this really is the last thing he needed. Nothing's gone right lately. The country doesn't suit him at all. I thought it would be quiet and he could work undisturbed. We both did. But he really needs to be nearer the laboratory. He has to drive miles all the way to Oxford, every time he wants to check on something. Add to that other upsets. It's been getting him down. You'll have to excuse his manner. He doesn't intend to be unfriendly."

"I understand." Liam's manner, as far as Meredith could tell, was only marginally more abrupt than it usually was.

Sally held up the brandy glass. "Would you like a drink? Sorry for not asking before, rotten hostess today!"

"No thanks. Do you want another?"

"Daren't. Got to try and keep a clear head for this super­intendent who's coming over. Normally I never touch the booze. Gives me hiccups."

"From Bamford?" As far as Meredith was aware, nowa­days there was no one above the rank of inspector at Bamford, not since Alan had moved on.

Sally was unwise enough to shake her head, winced, touched the plaster and said, "No, from regional police head­quarters apparently."

A quiver ran up Meredith's spine. Surely it wouldn't prove to be Alan? But what if it did? He wouldn't be pleased to see her here. He'd trot out that lecture again, the one on not interfering in police matters. But she was entitled to be here, she was Sally's friend.

"Did they say his name?" she asked as casually as she could.

"No, don't think so. I hope Liam isn't rude to him. I've told Liam, we've got to tell him everything."

Meredith leaned forward. "You mentioned other upsets just now. What kind?"

Sally looked miserable. "Difficulties with a neighbor. And other nasty things through the mail. Not exploding parcels or anything like that, just letters. I didn't know about them. Liam only told me just now, after the—the explosion. Apparently he's had some very offensive mail. He kept it from me so as not to upset me. Someone seems to have got it in for poor old Liam."

The names of people offended by Liam Caswell over the years probably numbered legion, thought Meredith. But to have offended someone to the extent that whoever it was sent a letter-bomb, indicated a grudge provoked by something be­yond Liam's ordinary rudeness.

"I suppose it's all to do with the beagles," Sally said ob­scurely.

There was the sound of another car drawing up outside and the slam of a door. Footsteps crunched up the path and some­one could be heard talking in the kitchen. Then Liam's voice was heard. He came back into the sitting room, another figure discernible behind him.

"This is the chap from the regional squad." Liam an­nounced the visitor with a distinct lack of grace. "Superin­tendent Maltby."

A lanky, fair-haired figure in a Barbour moved out from Caswell's shadow and into the room.

"Markby," he corrected. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Cas­well."

His gaze moved to the other woman. An eyebrow twitched and the look in his blue eyes sharpened. "Meredith?"

"Hullo, Alan," she said.



*3*
Meredith did offer to leave, but it was Sally who said, "I want Meredith to stay. She calms me down."

Alan had accepted that pretty well in the circumstances. The last of the forensic team had quitted the cottage with numerous plastic binbags of rubbish and now the four of them sat around in the quiet which had fallen over the scene. Mer­edith had made them all tea, bringing the kettle of water into the room and plugging it into a free point. Sally was clearly nervous again and Liam's brooding figure stretched out in a chintz armchair wasn't encouraging.

"Do you need further attention to that bump on your fore­head, Mrs. Caswell?" Alan asked.

"Liam took a look at it and patched it up," Sally repeated the assurance that she'd made to Meredith earlier. "I was really lucky."

Meredith reflected, with a touch of embarrassment, that one always tended to forget that Liam was a qualified medical practitioner, even though—or perhaps because—for years now his work had been in research, spent amongst test-tubes, not with people.

However, having seen the chaos in the kitchen for herself when she fetched the water, she took issue with Sally's last remark. "It was more than luck! It was a miracle! Whoever sent it, it was a wicked thing to do!"

Liam muttered and sank deeper in his chair. Markby gave him a questioning glance but Liam didn't elucidate.

"You feel up to talking to me?" Markby asked Sally. He emphasized "you" very slightly.

"Yes, but I can't tell you much. It was just a package."

"Addressed to you both, I understand." Again a glance at Liam who ignored it.

Sally nodded, winced again, and said hurriedly, "There was no Mr. and Mrs. Only our name and the address and the word 'video' in capitals."

"Were you expecting a videotape to come through the mail?"

"No. But Liam thought it might be a Christmas present."

"How about the handwriting?"

"It was just hand-printed. I didn't recognize it. It had a London postmark, I think central. I put it on the table and was just going to open it—" Her voice faltered. "Then the kettle boiled and I got up." Eyes cast down she finished in an almost inaudible mumble. "That's when the package ex­ploded. They've taken away what was left of it."

Markby turned to Liam Caswell. "How about you, Dr. Caswell? Did you see the handwriting?"

Liam, obliged at last to join in the conversation, shook his head and replied briefly. "No."

"And you have no idea who might have sent it?"

Fiercely, Liam repeated, "No!"

"The animal activists, Liam," protested his wife.

He glared at her. "Obviously! Anyone could work that out! But who they are, the police will have to find out that one, won't they?"

An awkward silence fell on the room. Meredith, her eyes on Alan, could see that he was sizing up Liam and working out how to tackle an uncooperative subject.

"You understand, Dr. Caswell, that I'm from the regional force. We were informed because, as I understand, such a group of activists targeted your laboratory last year. We're naturally concerned that the more violent wing of the animal rights' movement may be starting a new campaign hereabouts. They may be mailing devices to other people en­gaged in your line of work. We shall be warning others to look out. But as you appear to be the first for some time to be targeted in this way, we want to know if that's chance or if there's some reason why you were singled out to be first recipient."

Liam said wearily, "They're yobs. They don't have rea­sons."

Alan asked in a way Meredith thought admirably courteous, "But you've used animals in your research work, haven't you?"

The courtesy was lost on Liam who again snapped, "Not for some considerable time!"

Alan's voice was quiet but persistent. "But perhaps there's been some other change in your work recently which has attracted renewed interest from some group? Have you begun some new project of any sort? Something to which someone objected?"

Liam fidgeted and mumbled, "I got some letters. Just junk. Practical jokes."

Alan said sharply, "A letter-bomb is no joke, Dr. Caswell! What were these other letters about?"

"They were from those people!" Sally said loudly. "Those who tried to take the beagles from the laboratory last year."

Liam drew a deep breath and hauled himself out of his chair. He took up a position on the rug before the fire and with his hands behind his back, declared, "All right, I'll tell you. But I warn you, it won't help. I've received a few anon­ymous letters. Poison pen, I suppose you'd call them."

"You reported this?"

"No, of course not! I chucked them away."

"You weren't distressed in any way? You didn't want to find out who had sent them?"

"I told you!" Liam raised his voice. "I took them as a practical joke. All right, a sick practical joke—but the work of a weirdo somewhere. I didn't take them seriously."

It was clear that Alan was having difficulty keeping the courteous tone. Meredith saw him direct an exasperated look at Liam before he turned back to Sally. "You saw these let­ters?"

"No. Liam only told me about them today, after—after the explosion. I must have seen them arrive ... I mean, I must have seen the envelopes. But if I did, they didn't look dif­ferent from ordinary mail. Most of our mail is addressed to Liam. I only know they contained horrible, mischievous let­ters because Liam told me today, as I said. I was horrified. He'd said not a word about it because he didn't want to frighten me. But after what happened here today, he thought I ought to know. I said he ought to have told the police at the time, when he received them. He ought to have told me at the time, not kept it to himself. But he just threw them away."

Markby returned his attention to Caswell. Liam's manner which had been somewhat professorial since getting to his feet, had abruptly become deflated and was now sullen. He avoided the superintendent's gaze.

"I wish you had informed the police, Dr. Caswell. We might have been able to trace the sender and possibly, though we can't be sure, prevent today's incident! Am I to under­stand that these letters had to do with laboratory animals?''

"Look, have I been talking to myself or what?" Liam snapped. "We did use some beagles about a year ago. They didn't come to any harm! We had a controlled breeding pro­gram and the animals were excellently cared for! As I've tried to tell you, we haven't used animals since. I can't help it if lunatics out there think we do! They ought to check their facts first!"

If his account of the life led by the beagles was received with some skepticism by the two visitors, he didn't appear to notice it.

Sally frowned and winced, touching the plaster on her brow. "They can't know much about us at all. I mean, Liam should have been away in Norwich today. It's only because there was a last-minute delay he didn't go. They must just know Liam's name from that business last year when the lab was raided, and somehow they've got hold of our home ad­dress, which is scary."

"In Norwich, Dr. Caswell?"

"It's a joint project," Liam told him. "Since the opening up of eastern Europe, there are a number of similar pro­grammes. We take a steady stream of post-graduate students from the old eastern block. We send people across there. Be­fore the changes in Europe, doing something like that meant endless quibbling and bureaucracy. We wouldn't always get the people we thought best, rather the ones they chose to send. They were nervous who came from our side. Now we just do a straight swap. It's been very beneficial. But look, it's got absolutely nothing to do with this!"

"I see. Usually, Dr. Caswell, in a case like this, whoever has sent the abusive mail has signed it with the name of the group concerned. They want the publicity. Was there any indication who might have sent these letters?"

"No." Liam took refuge in a monosyllable again.

"Postmark?"

"Can't recall. London, I think."

"Anything unusual about the lettering?"

"No. Look, I get a lot of mail from London."

"And what, exactly, were they about?"

Forced at last to provide detail, deep emotion, as opposed to simple bad temper, entered Liam's voice. It quivered with passion. "They made stupid and inaccurate insinuations about my book. Ignorant and insulting criticisms!" His words tailed away in a splutter.

"Book?" Markby prompted.

Liam, regretting perhaps having revealed the depth to which he'd been wounded by the anonymous accuser, said stiffly, "I'm at present engaged in putting my research notes in order, writing them up for publication. I happen to think it'll be an important book and contribute to worldwide knowl­edge of the subject. I'm sorry if that sounds conceited. It happens to be true." A snarl crossed his bearded face. "Most people in this village seem to assume I'm writing a novel!"

Markby steepled his fingers and pressed them against his chin. "How many people know about this book? Do you know of any resentment against your work in other quarters? I've heard that academic rivalries can give rise to strong pas­sions."

"If you think one of my academic colleagues is jealous enough to send me stupid letters and exploding videos, forget it!" Liam shouted. He saw his wife's agonized expression and went on more calmly, "Look, Superintendent, I don't mean to be offensive, but this letter-bomb business is the last straw. What am I supposed to do? Barricade myself in against every crackpot in the country? Refuse to accept any mail in case it blows up? Go into hiding altogether and change my name? Of course not! That would be ridiculous. I just have to ignore it. It's all I can do."

"Unfortunately, Dr. Caswell, one can't ignore letter-bombs."

"Cranks!" shouted Liam. "I won't dignify their activities by according them serious consideration!"

This remark was received in silence. Eventually Markby said in a curious voice, "Dr. Caswell, as a police officer, I am obliged to look at this incident as very serious indeed. I don't wish to alarm, but whilst most of the people who make up these parcels only intend to frighten the recipient, a letter-bomb is a very dangerous thing and in the right circumstances can certainly kill."

Sally Caswell gasped and whispered, "How can they be so sick?"

Meredith put an arm around her shoulders and grimaced at Alan. Markby met her gaze and held it. "I'm sorry to distress Mrs. Caswell, but you, Dr. Caswell..." he turned from Mer­edith to Liam again, "shouldn't be taking this lightly."

Liam reddened. "I'm not taking it lightly. I'm just saying I can't do anything about it! Can you?" He glared at his visitor.

"We'll do our best." Markby glanced around the little room. "Leaving aside your medical work, is there any other reason you can think of which might be behind this? Have you made any enemies? At any time, even years ago, for any reason?''

"Local people don't like us much," Sally said with sadness in her voice. "I don't know why. I can't say we've really been terribly happy here. It's such a shame. I love this cot­tage."

Sympathetically, Markby told her, "It takes time to be ac­cepted in small communities. You have to tread carefully. They'll come around."

"Old Bodicote won't!" said Liam. "He lives next door here." He pointed at the wall. "Vindictive old blighter! He lets his goats through into our garden."

"Not on purpose, Liam!" his wife protested. "They eat through the hedge!"

"He could tether them on long ropes, couldn't he? Or put chainlink fencing along? Not him. I've told him, and I mean it, that the next time it happens I'll be seeing my solicitor about it!"

The winter evening had drawn in as they talked. In semi-darkness in the light from, the electric fire, the room had grown very warm and stuffy. Meredith's head had begun to ache and the all-to-familiar 'flu weakness swept over her. She leaned back and tried to fight it off. This isn't the time to buckle! she told herself sternly. She saw Alan glance her way and forced herself to sit up and look perky. But she suspected she didn't fool him.

Sally got up and switched on the main light-switch and they all blinked in the sudden yellow glare. The distraction was welcome to Meredith, but without warning, there came another.

From the kitchen came first the scrape of a footstep, fol­lowed by a clatter as something was knocked over.

"I thought the police had left?" Sally stared at them. "I suppose the back door must still be open."

Markby got up and made for the door of the room. But before he reached it, it swung open.

"Talk of the devil!" snapped Liam, jerking upright and gripping the chair-arms. "Would you credit it? It's Bodicote! Just bloody walked in! Helped himself!"

It didn't surprise Meredith that the old man had wandered through the unlocked kitchen door of a neighbor's house. It was old-fashioned country usage. Nor did he look particularly devilish to her, but he did look a little reptilian. His head was small, on a long, thin, wrinkled neck. Tortoise-like, he moved it from side to side, surveying them. His arms dangled by his sides, skinny wrists and knotty hands protruding from too-short jacket sleeves.

"I come in through the back door!" he rasped.

"I wish you'd knocked, Mr. Bodicote," Sally told him. "You gave us—you gave me—quite a start."

"I called out!" he retorted defensively. "But you never answered. I heard you talking, so I come in."

"What do you want?" Liam asked disagreeably. "We're busy!"

"I come to see what's going on. Police chap came around earlier and asked a lot of daft questions. I thought he'd come back. But they packed up their van and drove off a little while back. Left me sitting there not knowing what I'm supposed to do. So I reckoned you'd know."

That sounded reasonable enough.

"I'm sorry for the disturbance," Sally said.

Bodicote received her apology ungraciously. "Never heard such a racket in my life, and going on all day long! Starts off this morning, blooming great bang what made all the ornaments rattle on my mantelshelf! Glass breaking. Then cars and police and people trampling back and forth! A policeman comes to my house and makes off with Maureen's Christmas present! Won't say what he wants it for! Am I going to get it back, that's what I want to know!" He glared at Markby.

"This was always a quiet village before they came!" His tortoise head turned and thrust forward in challenge toward Liam. "As for threatening me with the law, Mr. or Dr. or whatever-you-are Caswell, I'll have that on you! Making a disturbance like it!"

"Mr. Bodicote," Alan stepped forward as peacemaker. "I'm Superintendent Markby. Perhaps I could come around and have a word with you before I leave Castle Darcy? Say in about twenty minutes' time? I'll explain what's hap­pened."

Bodicote raised a veined hand and pointed, trembling at Liam. "A copper? Well, arrest him! That feller there! He chucked a lump of brick at my billy! Valuable animal, he is! I should have had the RSPCA on him! I will do, if he goes chucking bricks at my goats again!"

Liam's bearded face had turned purple with fury. Meredith waited for him to explode with rage. But before he could, his wife acted.

Sally Caswell rushed forward and, in an uncharacteristic outburst, shook her fist under the astonished Bodicote's nose.

"You horrid, hateful old man! Liam said you let your smelly goats through the hedge on purpose and I believe him! You did it to be mean and horrid to us! You want us to leave! We've done nothing to you! We've tried to be nice and friendly and neighborly. Yes, neighborly! And you've been downright unpleasant from day one! More than that, you've been aggressive! I bet you had something to do with those foul letters! You're just a thoroughly nasty old mischief-maker and I wish you were dead!" And with that she burst into tears.



*4*
"I oughtn't to have said it!" Sally pressed a paper tissue against her eyes. When she took it away, smudged purple eye­shadow and black mascara had created the illusion of a splendid couple of shiners on her distraught features.

They'd all gathered around her, even Liam, startled by his wife's vehemence out of his customery self-absorption. Mr. Bodicote, equally taken aback by the reaction he'd provoked from the normally placid Mrs. Caswell, had retreated to his own home with a certain amount of alacrity.

"Don't worry," Meredith urged. "We all say things like that from time to time. You're upset."

"I know I'm upset. It's been such a dreadful day and it was the last straw when he threatened to call the RSPCA about the goat! I like animals and so does Liam! That's why it's so silly for people to write letters accusing Liam of doing horrid things to the beagles in the lab! But Bodicote doesn't keep his goats fenced in properly. The other day one got right up to the house and Liam threw a stone at it. He didn't mean to hit it, did you, Liam?"

"I missed," said Liam.

"But you weren't really trying to hit it, were you? I know you weren't. Old Mr. Bodicote was so cross. He didn't un­derstand. And he did give me such a shock wandering in just now like that. But I still shouldn't have said what I said. I wanted to hurt him. Saying I wished he was dead was an awful thing to say to a very old person, but I said it because I wanted to hurt him. It sort of surged up out some pit of the subconscious as the worst thing I could say to him!"

"We all do it under stress," Meredith repeated. "We say things we don't mean and upset people."

"I think," Alan Markby said, "that perhaps Mrs. Caswell's had enough for one day. I'll call again tomorrow if I may, or someone else will. We'll need to talk to you in more detail about these anonymous letters, Dr. Caswell. You might look around and see if by chance you haven't kept one. Threw it in a wastepaper bin, perhaps? Try and remember anything you can. Were they typed or hand-written or composed of cutout newsprint? What kind of paper was it? Cheap, ruled, plain, typing paper, quality letterpad? And the envelopes. Brown business envelopes? White letter ones? Oblong, square? Self-sealing?"

"For crying out loud!" Liam shouted. "I can't be expected to remember all that! They were bits of newsprint stuck on a sheet, apart from the envelope which was—um—printed by hand. The envelopes were just envelopes!"

"We can identify the newspaper used from the typeface and paper. And try to remember the exact wording and write it down for us."

Liam groaned but remorselessly Markby went on, "Try and recall the postmarks. Any kind of clue, even the tiniest."

"Why have I got to go through all this when I know—and you know—who sent them?" Liam's voice rang around the little sitting room. "It's that animal rights lot. The ones who broke in last year and tried to get the beagle cages open! They'd have got a helluva shock if they had managed to get the animals out, I can tell you! They give nasty bites!"

I hope they bit you! thought Meredith, but managed not to say it aloud.

"It's possible, although the group which targeted your lab­oratory last year is by no means the only group around."

Alan, while speaking, was studying Liam thoughtfully. "I wasn't involved at the time, and I haven't as yet had a chance to study the file. Dr. Caswell, you've expressed a great deal of anger, but your attitude appears to me somewhat inconsis­tent. Last year your laboratory was attacked. Recently, you received abusive mail but told no one. At the very least, you must have realized that it meant—as your wife pointed out just now—that one of these groups has your home address. Now today you received an explosive device which injured your wife. It's imperative we find the culprit as soon as pos­sible. But we must have your cooperation. To put it bluntly, our conversation has been akin to drawing teeth!"

Liam said dismissively, "The break-in at the lab was a year ago! I had forgotten about it by the time I received the let­ters."

"Forgot?" Alan's voice echoed disbelief.

"I put it out of my mind!" Liam exploded. "Those people want to worry me, right? So the best way to deal with them is to ignore them! If I allowed myself to be thrown off course by every delinquent in a ski-mask who thinks he has the right to smash expensive lab equipment and wreck experiments set up over months, I wouldn't have achieved half of what I have—"

Belatedly, he added, "Not only I, but the whole team work­ing on the project."

The stilted manner in which he referred to his fellow sci­entists, told them more, Meredith felt, about Liam's attitude to others, than anything else. She saw a flicker of a sardonic smile on Alan's face and realized he thought the same.

"We'll talk to your fellow-workers. One or more of them may also have received hate mail. And may have kept it!" This time Alan couldn't keep all the sarcasm from his voice.

Liam flushed, but much to his obvious relief, the superin­tendent had risen to his feet and showed signs of leaving.

"I hope if you receive any more mail, that you'll get in touch at once and keep everything!"

"Yes, all right!" Liam muttered.

"Try and get a good night's sleep, Mrs. Caswell." Alan's voice was milder. "And if a headache persists, or you feel any distress, call your doctor."

He looked across at Meredith. "I'll just go next door and have a quick word with Bodicote. Are you staying here?"

"I'll be leaving soon."

"I'll probably be about twenty minutes next door."

She read the sub-text. "Fine."

Markby made his way to the cottage next door. The curtains were tightly drawn but the room behind them was lit. He knocked loudly and called, "It's the superintendent, Mr. Bodicote."

A light was switched on in the tiny hall, glowing through the dirty transom glass above the door. Shuffling footsteps approached. A chain rattled. Bodicote's face appeared at the gap- "Oh, 'tis you..." He unchained the door and unwillingly allowed the superintendent inside. "You just wait a moment there."

As Markby watched, the old man rechained the door and hobbled with surprising speed back into the living room, clos­ing the door and isolating Markby in the narrow hall.

He looked down it, grimacing. The carpet was threadbare. Various items of shabby outer wear hung on an array of hooks at the foot of the rickety stairway. At the far end of the hall, a door stood ajar giving a dim glimpse of an untidy kitchen. Among the many odors drifting about could be distinguished that of fried onions and something which smelled like boiled mash. It indicated Bodicote prepared his own and the goats' feed in the same place and very likely at the same time. It wouldn't surprise Markby if he didn't use the same pans. A tough constitution and the fact that he'd always done so prob­ably preserved him from food poisoning.

The old fellow was taking his time. Markby strained his ears.

He thought he heard a rustling as of paper. Then some noise which sounded like a drawer sliding closed, followed by a faint click as of a turning key. After a moment, Mr. Bodicote returned.

"You can come in now."

"Thank you." Markby stepped into the tiny room.

Though this room corresponded to the one he'd just left next door, the overall first impression was quite different. No re­painting had been done for some years and the open fire smoking in the hearth had covered wallpaper and paintwork with a tawny film. The air was stuffy, though marginally bet­ter smelling than out in the hall, at least no stink of mash.

Markby sniffed. There was another smell. He was sensitive to odors but he couldn't place it. Though faint, it suggested that at full strength it would be pungent. An acrid smell which made him think of horses. Horses were animals, as were goats. Very likely the smell of the goats got everywhere, car­ried in here on the old man's clothing.

He looked around for a chair. All the furniture was sagging yet it was otherwise a comfortable little place. The tidiest area in it was the top of an oak dining table which was swept clear.

Markby's curious gaze examined further. Every shelf or other space where an ornament or item of practical use could stand was filled. A sideboard was covered in photographs, many sepia and of venerable age. A well-corseted young woman in a large hat and tailored suit draped with a feather boa might be the old man's mother. Movement took his at­tention. A little key swung in the lock of the top left-hand drawer, telling its own tale. It didn't take much detective work to deduce that Bodicote had been looking at or working at something spread out upon the table, something he hadn't wished Markby to see. Whatever it was had been hastily scooped up and locked away in the drawer. He was sure the old man had checked around to see nothing else had been left out for a visitor to discover. But what had he to hide?

The superintendent asked, "May I sit down?"

Bodicote indicated that he could and they took facing chairs either side of the hearth. The coals spat and yellow flames sprang up. Markby felt an odd moment of nostalgia. When he'd been a child, visits to elderly people had always seemed like this. Small, stuffy, overcrowded rooms, flickering flames in a hearth reflected off brass fenders, all manner of china ornaments and occasionally an ancient dog or equally aged cat. Bodicote apparently didn't keep animals indoors.

"So, what's all the fuss about, then?" Bodicote sat with his hands on his knees. The knuckles, swollen by rheumatism, pushed up through paperthin skin like a miniature mountain range. But the hands still looked as if they had strength enough in them, a working man's hands.

Markby wasn't so easily drawn. "I understand an officer called on you earlier to explain there'd been a mishap in Mrs. Caswell' s kitchen."

"He did. And asked me if I'd had any mail delivered today. As it happens, my niece, Maureen, had sent me my Christmas present. And he took it away!" Bodicote's voice rose indignantly. "That young copper! He asked me if I'd opened it already and when I said no, he took it away!"

"Just a precaution. I'm sure you'll get it back when it's been examined, Mr. Bodicote. You will know by now that a suspected letter-bomb went off next door."

"Exploding parcels!" said Bodicote with great disdain. "Before those Caswells come here, we never had exploding parcels in Castle Darcy!"

"I understood you to say just now, next door, that you heard the explosion."

Bodicote muttered grumpily, "Darn near made me jump out of my skin, I can tell you!"

"But you didn't go around to the cottage at once to see what had happened, or if anyone was hurt or needed help? You weren't curious? You left it until just a little while ago to make inquiries?"

"I'll tell you what I did," Bodicote fixed him with faded and unfriendly eyes. "I went down to see if Jasper was all right."

"Jasper?" The Caswells hadn't mentioned anyone called Jasper.

"My billy. I'd turned him out in the paddock. He's a val­uable beast and that feller Cas well tried to harm him before! Throwing rocks at him, like I told you!"

The billy-goat. It seemed the billy was going to be part and parcel of the inquiries whether Markby liked it or not. ' 'What time was this, Mr. Bodicote, did you notice?"

"It was around breakfast-time and I'd not long turned out the billy. I didn't turn out the nannies on account of the cold weather. You've got to cherish goats. Not like some folk think. But Jasper don't like to be shut in all day. If you wants to know when exactly I can't tell you by the clock. But I can tell you it was just after the postlady come. Very nice young girl, she is. About quarter of an hour or twenty minutes after she came to my door, not more, that's when I heard the racket and the breaking glass."

"So, you went down to see the billy-goat was unharmed and then what did you do?"

Bodicote fidgeted. He took his hands from his knees, stooped and picked up a brass poker and rattled it in the hearth. Coals fell in on one another, crackling and spitting. "Make yourself handy," he said. "Just pick up the tongs and put a couple of lumps on the fire, from the scuttle there, by your foot."

Markby did as he was bid. When he sat back again, Bodicote had composed himself, his hands loosely clasped. He hadn't had long but the maneuver had given him time enough to marshal his story in his head as he wanted it. So Markby realized. He was annoyed to think the old man had seized the initiative so easily.

"I saw the billy was all right and I started to walk to my back door again. Then I thought, better go and see what's up next door. But I wasn't sure how I'd be received. You saw the welcome I got just now! Abuse thrown at my head! There's a place in the hedge where I patched up a hole. I used an old brass bedhead. It makes a sort of gate, if you know what I mean. I just pulled it back and slipped through and walked up to the back of their cottage across their bit of garden. I could see the kitchen window broken and smoke coming out."

Bodicote paused. "I couldn't see in. It was dark in there. I went along to the new place they built on alongside. I looked through the window there and I saw all his papers and things on a desk. He wasn't there. That machine of his was switched on, with writing all over a screen, like a telly. Then I heard him shouting at her and she was shouting at him."

"Where were they?"

"As far as I could tell, in the kitchen, only I couldn't see on account of the smoke. They must have been all right, to be yelling at each other like it. Then, while I stood there, he come back into his little study place. He didn't see me at the window. He lit himself a cigarette which struck me as being rum, because I thought it might've been the gas. You don't go lighting up cigarettes with gas leaking, do you? But then, when I saw him do that, I realized it couldn't be the gas and that was a relief, I can tell you! Because if it had been, I might've had to clear out of my place, too, until it got fixed."

The old man was both observant and sharp, Markby thought. He was proving a better witness than might have been hoped. Provided, of course, that he was telling the truth.

"Then he went over to that telly sort of affair..."

"The computer?" Markby asked.

"That's what they call 'em. He sat down and started tap­ping on the keys."

Markby looked startled. "He started working again? With smoke in the kitchen, glass broken, his wife upset?"

Bodicote thought about it. "Maybe it was important to him to finish something? You do what's important to you first, don't you? Like I ran down to see if old Jasper was safe. Caswell went back and mucked about with whatever he was doing on his computer-machine."

Possibly Liam had been saving important data to disk. Markby nevertheless found himself shocked that Liam's work had still been uppermost in his mind at such a time. Or was Bodicote, in his country way, putting his finger on a basic fact of human psychology?

A memory stirred in Markby's brain and he was distracted enough to chase after the line until he found it and murmured aloud, "A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box."

Bodicote's grin returned. "Sherlock Holmes!" he said un­expectedly. "A Scandal in Bohemia. I don't like that one so much. The Sign of Four, that's my favorite."

It seemed the old man had a way of turning the tables on his visitor. "You like a good book, then, Mr. Bodicote?"

"Ah," said Bodicote with satisfaction. "I like a good yarn. But they don't write no good 'uns now, not like the books people used to read when I was a youngster. Sexton Blake, they were good stories. And Dr. Fu Manchu, they were an­other! That feller next door reckons he writes books. I bet he don't never write anything near as good as The Thirty-Nine Steps or The Riddle of the Sands. I got 'em all over there in my bookcase!"

He nodded toward the far side of the room where Markby could see, in the shadows and half-hidden by an armchair, a set of shelves crammed with venerable volumes.

Markby would dearly have liked to get up and go over there to examine them, but he dragged his mind back to the matter in hand.

"Actually, I understand Dr. Caswell's book is non-fiction. To do with his work. You didn't know about that?"

"He don't do no work!" said Bodicote. "He's there all day long, tapping away at that machine. His wife goes off in her car to work most days. Not always. Part-timer I suppose."

"So you've no idea what kind of work Dr. Caswell is en­gaged on?"

"I told you, he does none! Calls himself doctor, though! He's got no patients, then, if he's a doctor."

"He's not that sort of a doctor."

"What other sort is there?" Bodicote stared belligerently at his visitor.

Either Bodicote really didn't know what Liam Caswell's profession was, or he wasn't going to let on.

"You don't like Dr. Caswell?"

"No." Bodicote's faded gaze fixed his visitor. "But there's no law says I've got to like the feller, is there?"

Markby abandoned that line of questioning for something nearer to the old man's heart.

"I believe there has been some dispute with your neighbors about the goats," he began.

Bodicote cleared his throat. "On their part, maybe. Not on mine. Not to begin with. I was here first, wasn't I? Me and the goats. The old woman who lived in that cottage before these new folk, she didn't mind the goats. I was civil to them Caswells when they moved in. Not but what it wasn't wasted on him who's a surly devil. And as to my going around there to ask if they were all right, I hope you've noted that neither of them came around here to tell me what happened and see if I was all right, eh?''

Markby was inclined to agree with Bodicote. "Surly de­vil" wasn't an unjust description of Liam Caswell from what little he'd seen of the man.

"Dr. Caswell claims the animals have broken through the fence and into his garden."

"Once or twice," Bodicote conceded grudgingly. "Goats are wanderers. It's their nature. They did no harm. Ate a bit of grass and nibbled a few leaves. It's not as though he's got a top-notch garden! I never saw him doing any gardening! His missus does it all. And it isn't my fault if she grows a lot of stuff goats like.''

"What sort of stuff?" Markby asked him.

"Kitchen bits, herbs and that. She makes tea with 'em, so she told me. Mint and comfrey and the like. She's got a bit of soft fruit growing, blackcurrants, but she don't tend 'em and they won't crop proper. Now blackcurrant leaves you can make a nice tea with. My mother used to use them."

"You get along better with Mrs. Caswell, then?"

"Better than with him, aye. But lately she's got nearly as bad as he is! Not but what she's a bonny lass for all that." Bodicote nodded.

Markby suppressed a smile. "It's never occurred to you to, say, play a trick or two on Liam Caswell, to get your own back?"

Bodicote's eyelids flicked rapidly over his faded eyes so that Markby, as others had been, was reminded of some kind of reptile, a lizard on a rock. "Why'd I do something so daft? I'm not a child to be playing tricks. I'll tell the cruelty people on him, if he goes chucking rocks at my goats again, that's what I'll do, phone up the RSPCA. That'll fix him." Bodicote leaned forward.

"You care about animals, Mr. Bodicote? Don't like to think they're mistreated?"

"Course I care about them! Kept animals of one sort or another all my life!" Bodicote's gnarled fingers tightened on his kneecaps. "He's been threatening me, you know. Says he'll set his lawyers on me. Can he do that?"

"If you're allowing the animals to stray and they're caus­ing damage, he might have a grievance in law."

"And what about the damage he's done to me? To my animals?" Bodicote's voice grew louder. He pointed a fore­finger at his visitor. "What about that, eh?"

"So far you've claimed he threw a stone once. He admits it. It was a reaction. He says he didn't mean to hit the animal, only frighten it away. Not everyone is as used to handling animals as you, Mr. Bodicote, especially livestock like goats."

A dull flush crept over the folds of loose skin around the old man's throat and into his wrinkled face. His chin wobbled and his pale eyes sparked with a new life. "Didn't mean no harm! Didn't he? What about when they tried to poison them, eh? What about when they tried to poison my goats?" In his agitation spittle escaped his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

"Now, Mr. Bodicote," Markby said peaceably. "I'm sure you don't really mean that."

"Don't I?" Bodicote snapped and saliva sprayed every­where. "Then what about those turnips?"

Markby stepped outside the cottage, into the blackness of a country night, and looked up at the sky. It was clear of cloud, dominated by an almost white moon, and sprinkled over with glittering points marking the stars. He could make out the constellations easily. Possibly there'd be another frost tonight. He took a breath of clean cold air, filling his lungs after the stuffy interior behind him, and walked toward the road.

He could see Meredith's car and the dim outline of her head as she sat in it waiting for him. She let down the window as he approached.

He stooped to speak to her. "Thanks for hanging on. Sorry to be so long. How are you?"

"I'm fine. I wish I thought Sally was. Honestly, sometimes I could wring Liam's neck! It's not that he doesn't care about her, but that for an intelligent man, he can act awfully thick! He doesn't think anything matters but his work!"

"Was he always like that? You knew them before, some years back, didn't you?"

"Yes. He was always a bit like it, but not so bad as he's become as he's got older."

Alan put a hand on the window rim. "Look, I was won­dering, if you're free tonight, whether we could have a spot of dinner later on."

She looked a little doubtful, perhaps surprised that he ap­peared to have dismissed the new case from his mind so quickly. He was forced to add apologetically, "You see, you know the Caswells and I'd like to have a word with you about them. Business rather than pleasure!"

That wasn't, he supposed, very polite.

She was silent for a moment but her hesitation wasn't on that account. "I don't like to gossip about friends. And I don't know about dinner. I'm not eating much at the moment."

"Look, it's not gossip! Someone has made a murderous attack, apparently intended for Liam Caswell, which nearly got his wife instead. At the moment Caswell isn't offering any help. I've got to talk to anyone at all who might be able to throw some light on this. You do know you can talk to me in confidence, I hope?"

He couldn't help sounding a little sharp. She raised an eye­brow.

"Yes, I know that! But surely the animal rights extremists who targeted Liam's laboratories are responsible?"

"I'll look into that, don't worry. But my impression of Caswell is that he's the sort of person who's likely to have more than one set of enemies! Correct me if I'm wrong, that's all I'm saying."

She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. "No, you're not wrong. But it's not as simple as you might think. Where do you want us to meet?"

"Do you fancy Indian? We could eat at the little Kashmiri place where we've been a couple of times. It'll be quiet there mid-week."

In Meredith's stomach, reduced to inertia by Mrs. Harmer's bland cuisine, the idea of spices and curry sparked a genuine pang of hunger.

She nodded in the shadows. "Great. See you there at seven-fifteen?''


He was already at the restaurant when Meredith arrived later. It was only a small place, papered with crimson flock wall­paper and with subdued Indian music tinkling in the background. Its intimacy meant that she saw him as soon as she walked in. Despite it being some time since their last visit, she was recognized and enthusiastically welcomed by the owner.

She sat down opposite Alan and smiled at him a little un­certainly. Walking here through town, she'd had time to think about things and her doubts had returned.

Police work, as she'd discovered before, didn't take ac­count of people's feelings. Her own feelings at the moment were a jumble of contradictions. She was glad that Sally wasn't seriously hurt: but appalled that the incident had taken place at all. She was pleased that Alan wanted to share his problem with her: and dreaded that it would finish with an argument.

The truth was that, although she loved him—and she did love him, despite an awareness that her love for him was not as straightforward as his for her—he became a different per­son when he "wore his police hat." That other Alan could seem a frightening stranger. It had happened before that they'd found themselves in the situation of two persons stand­ing either side of a divide, stretching out hands to one another and unable to touch fingers. At the same time, confusingly, the cases in which he became involved had often fascinated her and led to her becoming involved herself. That was some­thing that had frequently exasperated Alan.

But this time he was asking her to come and talk about what had happened. The trouble was, talking to him in his official capacity, about friends like Liam and Sally, felt an awful lot like ratting on someone. Accordingly, she'd thought out what she wanted to say. Now she sat up straight and fixed him with a businesslike stare.

"So, the regional force is handling this?"

He grimaced. "This could be just the first of a series of attacks on random targets. Supposing it's the work of extrem­ists, the first thing is to find out just who. Most organizations aiming to improve the lot of animals are open in their meth­ods. They try to keep within the law and, when they don't, it's generally a matter of public order. There may be a scuffle on a picket line or rough-house when emotions run high and tempers flare. It gets onto the evening newscast and the or­ganizers aren't too displeased with the publicity. The police aren't happy but I, for one, much prefer that to what happened today. Any cause attracts its undesirables. There are rene­gades in the animal welfare movement as in any other. Their methods are nasty and their true aims obscure. A letter-bomb is about as nasty as you can get."

He broke off with an apologetic smile. "I haven't asked you to dinner just to talk about this case. We haven't seen much of each other lately."

"I've had flu."

"I know that. I called around with flowers and sympathy, but a dragon in a pinny opened the door and wouldn't let me in."

"Mrs. Harmer. She's James Holland's housekeeper. He no­bly sent her around to take care of me."

"Thought I recognized her. One way of the church taking care of its parishioners, I suppose!"

Meredith protested, "I did phone and thank you for the flowers the next day!"

"And told me to stay away!"

"With best intentions!"

They both laughed. "So," he said. "How are you feeling now?"

"Much better, honestly. Right as a trivet, as the saying goes." She suspected he didn't believe her. His blue eyes were concerned, still searching her face critically, looking for lingering traces of the effects of the flu.

But all he said was, "Good. Ahmed recommends the spiced vegetable samosa starter."

"Fine by me!" Meredith told him heartily. But she hadn't got away with it so easily.

Without warning, he returned to the subject of her recent indisposition. "Tell me if you aren't feeling up to talking. Are you sure you're all right? What you need is a tonic. When I was a kid, we were always being dosed with stuff from a bottle when we'd been laid up. It was supposed to fix you up in no time."

"I don't suppose you can get that sort of tonic these days. There was probably stuff in it a pharmacist wouldn't be al­lowed to dispense now!" She leaned across the table and touched his hand briefly. "I'm all right! I felt a bit headachy in Sally's place, but I only needed some air."

He would have caught her hand, but she slipped it free. "I am worried about Sally. I realize how dangerous that bomb was today, even if Liam doesn't. And I really am feeling quite all right."

There was an interruption as they were asked if they wished to order and also, what they wished to drink.

When they'd placed their orders and the barman had brought the drinks, Meredith went on, "It's been a while, as you say. Tell me what's been happening on your side of the fence."

"Police work, what else?" He grinned at her, his fair hair falling forward in the way she knew so well and which always provoked in her the corniest of reactions.

"You probably don't want to hear about it. But you re­member Pearce who was my sergeant in Bamford? He's passed his exams and made inspector. Even better, he's joined us over at Regional HQ. I'm hoping we'll be working to­gether on this Caswell business."

That brought them back to business. "I have to confess, it still feels odd, talking about friends," Meredith admitted, fid­dling with the corner of her napkin.

"It may help save their lives."

Put like that, there was no possible further objection. Mer­edith sipped her gin and tonic and wondered how she ought to begin. She was saved by the arrival of the samosas. There was another break in conversation. She prolonged it by say­ing, "Glad you've got Pearce back. I know you always liked working with him." He mumbled assent but wasn't drawn. She took a deep breath. "Right! What do you want me to tell you about the Caswells?"

"Anything which might give a lead. All I know is that a letter-bomb has been delivered to their home early today. Cor­rection, Caswell also sprang anonymous letters on me. So anonymous he can't tell me a thing about them." Alan spoke the last words with some ferocity.

The samosa hit Meredith's stomach with a mini-explosion of taste. Though delicious, after so much bland food lately, it was too much to take. She put down her fork. "Surely people who write poison pen letters go out of their way to hide any clues?"

"It wasn't ordinary poison pen mail. Or, we suppose it wasn't. It seems, from what Caswell remembers about the content, that it was from someone who knew about this book, his work. That suggests animal rights activists. But they like the recipient to know he's been targeted and usually sign their offensive mail—not with their names, naturally—but with the name of some action group. Usually some group no one has heard of and which might be new—or an old group using a new name. Publicity and instilling fear is the name of the game with them. As for the package..." He pushed away his empty plate. ' 'We may get a phone call tomorrow, claim­ing responsibility."

He hesitated. "It was fairly powerful. I had a brief word with the explosives boys. They expressed surprise. When pressure groups send letter-bombs they usually intend to frighten and warn, as I say. Some of the packages are fakes, don't explode at all. They're rigged up to look as if they're meant to be bombs, but contain messages, cards of condo­lence et cetera. There's little point in including those if no one gets to read them! This one was designed to explode and indicates a willingness to do serious harm. Even to kill."

Meredith had paled. "It's vicious. The product of a sick mind. It has to be! They couldn't even be sure Liam would open it. Wasn't he supposed to be in Norwich or somewhere? As it happens, he was there, but as bad luck had it, poor Sally opened it. What's Sally ever done to harm anyone?"

"You sound as if you wouldn't have been too sorry if Liam had opened it!" he teased.

"I don't care for him much," she confessed. "One puts up with Liam for the sake of Sally. Sally is a sweet person. That's what makes it so stupid."

"The people we're dealing with, a mistake as regards vic­tim from time to time doesn't put them off. Unfortunate ca­sualties in a greater cause, as far as they're concerned." He hissed in annoyance. "I wish Caswell had kept those anon­ymous letters. There may have been some warning in them that he should watch out for more dangerous mail. He seems unbelievably offhand about them!"

"That doesn't surprise me as much as it does you!" she told him. "Liam's absolutely wrapped up in his work. For him, it's so self-evident that it's important, I really don't think he can take in the fact that anyone could possibly object to it in any way."

"Caswell must have a general impression how people feel," Alan said sharply. "He was at pains to tell us his an­imals hadn't suffered, I noticed! Surely anyone whose work involves laboratory animals is well aware how much emotion that generates? To be honest, I wonder myself about the mind of a person who uses animals in that way. I know scientists say advances in medicine have been only possible using lab­oratory animals but I'm inclined to question that. However, what I think isn't what dictates my actions in this. I'm a policeman and supposed to uphold the law. The law's been broken here in a more than obvious way!"

He'd acquired a dogged tone. She recognized that, too. De­spite their differences of opinion about his police work, there was no one, Meredith thought now, whom she'd rather have on this case, involving as it did, an old friend of hers. The realization disposed of her reluctance to impart information about Liam.

"Sally told me that nowadays Liam's completely obsessed with the book he's writing. He's always been tunnel-visioned."

"How did you first meet them?"

The waiter was back to whisk away the plates. Ahmed bustled up and regarded Meredith's almost untouched samosas with dismay. "Something is wrong?"

"No, I'm sorry. It's delicious but I'm not very hungry." She smiled apologetically. "I'm just getting over influenza. My appetite's not very good."

"The 'flu!" said Ahmed knowledgeably. "My wife's mother also..."

He walked away shaking his head. Meredith folded her hands on the tablecloth and said ruefully, "Poor Ahmed. I didn't mean to insult his food! As for when I got to know the Caswells, it was a long time ago."

A plate of Naan bread appeared in front of them.

"It was when I first joined the Foreign Service and I was working in London. I had a flat in Holland Park, on the first floor of a nice old house. Normally the rent would have been beyond my means but it belonged to a colleague. He was overseas on a posting for a year or two and wanted someone who needed a short-term let. It suited him to let another government employee have it, at a reasonable rate."

A savory pungent aroma announced the arrival of rich lamb curry. There was another pause in the conversation.

"Liam and Sally lived in the ground-floor flat. They'd not long been married. Liam had qualified as a doctor and was working at one of the London hospitals, but he wanted to get into research. Gosh, this is hot!" Wishing to compensate for her neglect of the samosas, Meredith had taken an unwary, large mouthful of the curry.

"Like it hot," said Alan indistinctly. "This flat, wasn't it also a bit out of the usual league for a impecunious young doctor?''

"Oh, but Sally has money. That's not to say Liam hasn't—hadn't. I don't know his financial situation at that time. But Sally's family was wealthy." She paused. "I really am going to have to have some water."

"Drinking water makes it worse."

"I can't help that. Do ask if they've got a bottle of Evian before I start breathing flames."

The water arrived by the hand of a grinning waiter. Mer­edith drank deeply. "Ah! That's better! Both Sally and I grew up as the only child of elderly parejits," she went on. "When we found out we had that in common we got on really well. She told me about her family. Her situation was a bit different from mine in that her mother died when she was tiny and her father was quite desolate. He had no intention of remarrying, but he wanted his little daughter to have a permanent female to whom she could relate, a mother-substitute. So he sold up and moved in with his sister. Aunt Emily was even older. She'd never married and was still living in the family home—Sally's grandparents' house. It was a big place in Surrey and there was plenty of room for Sally and her father."

"Desirable property," he observed.

"I told you, they were wealthy. Later Sally's father died and she carried on living with Aunt Emily. She was very fond of the old lady and they got on well but there was a heck of a generation gap. I think that's partly why Sally married very young, only nineteen. The aunt didn't object because Liam was a handsome young doctor who had what were usually called 'prospects' by Emily's generation."

"I presume Liam had managed to be polite to auntie?"

"He isn't rude to everyone!" Meredith found herself de­fending Liam, which put her in a false position. She put down knife and fork to gesticulate. "It's like this, going back to Holland Park days, he and Sally appeared very happy and he was civil enough—to me, anyway. But, you see, Liam is a genius. Don't pull that face! He started as one of those gifted kids who become brilliant students, marked out for a special career from the beginning. If he became conceited, it's not surprising."

"Some of the most gifted people I've met," Alan said pugnaciously, "have also been some of the most modest!"

"Liam's not modest. It would be nice if he was, but he never has been. He's always been told he was special, from a very early age. He just believes he's different. Everyone has always told him so. In some cases, that sort of thing is bal­anced by a natural pleasant disposition. That, I'm sorry to say, is something Liam doesn't have."

"So he goes around treading on toes and behaving like a lout?"

It was clear Alan had taken a dislike to Liam. Since he was going to be protecting Caswell, that was probably a pity. But entirely Liam's fault, Meredith reflected.

"Let me put it this way," she said. "Some of us are civil to others because we have nice natures."

"Present company," said Alan politely.

She plowed on determinedly. "Some of us are polite be­cause we hope others will be polite to us, in return. A way of getting along in society."

"Do as you would be done by."

"Exactly. But someone like Liam doesn't have to worry if people like him or not. He has an exceptional gift. The normal social rules don't apply to him. Or that's how he sees it."

"Are you seriously saying he can go around offending any­one he wishes?" Alan sounded genuinely amazed and was staring at her.

"No! Of course not! I'm trying to explain the man to you! If he's upset people, he's never had to worry about it. A lot of people would say he's eccentric. Or that his behavior is a mark of brilliance. I don't say I agree. To be frank, he drives me barmy! Although I repeat, he's normally fairly polite to me. But I also know that over the years, his arrogance has got worse and it isn't tempered by extreme youth any more. People overlook behavior in young people that they don't forgive in older ones. Fact of life. Liam can be high-handed and he doesn't like opposition."

Meredith gave a grin. "Liam's career has been punctuated by flaming rows with just about everyone: colleagues, gov­ernment departments, editors of professional journals, taxi-drivers, you name it! Even all those years ago in Holland Park, there was a dust-up about parking in front of the house. The other person concerned was willing to compromise but Liam decided to be awkward."

"He's fallen out with his neighbor in Castle Darcy, too, hasn't he?" Alan pointed out.

"The old man, Bodicote?" Meredith thought that over. "Do you think he might send anonymous letters?" She con­sidered this, then shook her head. "He wouldn't send a letter-bomb, surely?"

"I admit it's unlikely he'd concoct an explosive device. But write an abusive letter? Yes, he might. Almost anyone might. Bad blood between neighbors has led to really nasty acts before now. And we can't just assume the same person sent the letters and today's explosive package."

Alan smiled. "Funny old boy, Bodicote. A bit of surprise, really. I quoted Conan Doyle to him and he picked it up straight away. He's a great reader of what he calls decent yarns. He seemed to think Liam was writing a novel."

"Liam said something about that, didn't he? That villagers assume he's a novelist. Doesn't sound as if Bodicote knows anything about Liam's work, then."

"Or isn't admitting it."

The waiter had returned for their finished plates. Neither wanted anything more to eat and they settled for coffee. An­other pair of hands deposited hot towels in little china dishes before them.

"You know," said Meredith, picking up her towel and disinterring it from its hygienic wrapper, "I love the food here but always have to wash my hair when I get home. The smell of the curry seems to linger."

"Smells do linger..." Alan seemed to have drifted off into some reminiscence. Realizing she was looking at him, he apologized. "Sorry, just thinking. Old Bodicote's sitting room had a funny sort of smell lingering in it. It made me think of horses."

"He keeps goats."

"I know. I don't mean it was a strong horsy smell. Just a sort of smell you'd associate with being around horses."

"Liniment? Country people rub odd preparations into their stiff joints. Saddle soap? Old Bodicote cleaning his boots with it?"

"That's more like it. It reminded me of a tack room. Leather saddles." He shrugged. "Mind you, that whole cot­tage of his is redolent of just about everything under the sun!"

Coffee arrived with a dish of mint chocolates.

"I don't know whether it has anything at all to do with the Caswells," Alan said slowly. "I'm certainly not accusing Bodicote of writing the letters as yet. But the old fellow is up to something. All the signs are there."

"Old people are secretive. Probably counting his money. Keeps his savings under the bed."

"Hope not," said Alan, unwrapping a mint. "Very dan­gerous thing to do!"


Outside the restaurant the town streets gleamed eerily under the yellow glow of the lamps. Few people were about.

"I didn't bring my car," Alan said. "I knew I'd be having a drink. I'll walk you home. Although the wind's chill. We'll take a taxi."

She slipped her arm through his. "I'd rather walk. I've been cooped up for a couple of weeks."

They set off down the street, their shadows lengthening before them as they moved away from the lamplight, dispa­rate forms, linked together.