bunch you’ve got in with,’ remarked Sir Charles.
‘Oh, you mean the Dembley Walkers. It’s something to do.’
‘Are you going out this Saturday?’
‘Yes, I have to keep an eye on our detectives.’
‘Pity. I’ve got people at the weekend and wanted to ask you over.’
Deborah spilled some coffee from her polystyrene cup. Damn the walkers. Should she say she would drop going with them? Would that look too eager? Would . . .?
‘Of course, if you’re all through by the evening, you can come for dinner,’ she realized he was saying.
‘What time?’
‘Oh, eight or eight thirty.’
‘Thanks awfully.’
‘My pleasure. Only hope you don’t find it a bore. Gosh, I’m tired. Have you got your car?’
‘No, I live quite close by.’
‘Then I’ll walk you home.’
Dembley was an old market town which no longer boasted a market but sometimes on calm evenings still held a flavour of the old days. The market hall with its splendid arches and clock tower now
housed an Italian restaurant and an auction room. The beautiful seventeenth-century house opposite had a garish neon sign in one window flashing out chinese take-away. Concrete blocks of shops
nearly obscured the view of the thirteenth-century church. White-faced youths leaned against lamp-posts at street corners and jeered at the world in a tired way, their speech liberally sprinkled
with obscenities.
As they passed one group, a thin teenager shouted out, ‘Getting your leg over tonight, guv?’ and the rest sniggered.
To Deborah’s horror, Sir Charles stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Why did you say that?’ he demanded, addressing the teenager.
The boy looked at his shoes and muttered, ‘Sod off.’
Sir Charles stared at him curiously. Then he turned to Deborah and took her arm. ‘It’s not that they suffer from material poverty,’ he said. ‘It’s a poverty of the
mind, wouldn’t you say?’
Deborah, head down, murmured, ‘Oh, ignore them. They might have knives.’
Sir Charles turned back. ‘Have you got knives?’ he asked.
For some reason, his simple, almost childlike curiosity appeared to embarrass the youths more than a stream of insults would have done.
Muttering, they slid off, still in a group, used to being in a gang since they were toddlers, frightened to break away from each other and become vulnerable individuals.
‘Here’s where I live,’ said Deborah, stopping in front of a dark doorway between a dress shop and an off-licence. ‘Would you . . . would you like to come up for a cup of
coffee?’
Unnoticed by Deborah, who was studying her shoes, a predatory gleam entered Sir Charles’s eyes. He fancied her a lot, he thought. She was different from the girls he usually escorted.
There was something so pliant and appealing about her thinness and whiteness. He was not used to shy women and found Deborah a novelty. ‘Not tonight,’ he said. He took her face between
his hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘See you Saturday. Would you like me to send Gustav for you?’
‘No!’ said Deborah. ‘I mean, I know the way.’
‘And so you do. Bye.’
Deborah scurried up the stairs, her heart beating hard. She was going to be a dinner guest at Barfield House. She telephoned her mother in Stratford-upon-Avon. Mrs Camden, a tired, faded woman,
worn out with years of work in looking after Deborah and her two brothers because Mr Camden had shot off for parts unknown shortly after Deborah, the youngest, had been born, listened to
Deborah’s excited voice bragging about how she was going to be a dinner guest at Barfield House.
‘Make sure your underwear’s clean,’ cautioned Mrs Camden. ‘You never know what might happen.’
And Deborah knew her mother did not mean that her daughter should be prepared for a night of lust but was simply expressing an old fear that one of her children might meet with an accident and
arrive at the hospital in dirty underwear.
The next morning Agatha did not rush to get to the
‘Oh, you mean the Dembley Walkers. It’s something to do.’
‘Are you going out this Saturday?’
‘Yes, I have to keep an eye on our detectives.’
‘Pity. I’ve got people at the weekend and wanted to ask you over.’
Deborah spilled some coffee from her polystyrene cup. Damn the walkers. Should she say she would drop going with them? Would that look too eager? Would . . .?
‘Of course, if you’re all through by the evening, you can come for dinner,’ she realized he was saying.
‘What time?’
‘Oh, eight or eight thirty.’
‘Thanks awfully.’
‘My pleasure. Only hope you don’t find it a bore. Gosh, I’m tired. Have you got your car?’
‘No, I live quite close by.’
‘Then I’ll walk you home.’
Dembley was an old market town which no longer boasted a market but sometimes on calm evenings still held a flavour of the old days. The market hall with its splendid arches and clock tower now
housed an Italian restaurant and an auction room. The beautiful seventeenth-century house opposite had a garish neon sign in one window flashing out chinese take-away. Concrete blocks of shops
nearly obscured the view of the thirteenth-century church. White-faced youths leaned against lamp-posts at street corners and jeered at the world in a tired way, their speech liberally sprinkled
with obscenities.
As they passed one group, a thin teenager shouted out, ‘Getting your leg over tonight, guv?’ and the rest sniggered.
To Deborah’s horror, Sir Charles stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Why did you say that?’ he demanded, addressing the teenager.
The boy looked at his shoes and muttered, ‘Sod off.’
Sir Charles stared at him curiously. Then he turned to Deborah and took her arm. ‘It’s not that they suffer from material poverty,’ he said. ‘It’s a poverty of the
mind, wouldn’t you say?’
Deborah, head down, murmured, ‘Oh, ignore them. They might have knives.’
Sir Charles turned back. ‘Have you got knives?’ he asked.
For some reason, his simple, almost childlike curiosity appeared to embarrass the youths more than a stream of insults would have done.
Muttering, they slid off, still in a group, used to being in a gang since they were toddlers, frightened to break away from each other and become vulnerable individuals.
‘Here’s where I live,’ said Deborah, stopping in front of a dark doorway between a dress shop and an off-licence. ‘Would you . . . would you like to come up for a cup of
coffee?’
Unnoticed by Deborah, who was studying her shoes, a predatory gleam entered Sir Charles’s eyes. He fancied her a lot, he thought. She was different from the girls he usually escorted.
There was something so pliant and appealing about her thinness and whiteness. He was not used to shy women and found Deborah a novelty. ‘Not tonight,’ he said. He took her face between
his hands and kissed her on the lips. ‘See you Saturday. Would you like me to send Gustav for you?’
‘No!’ said Deborah. ‘I mean, I know the way.’
‘And so you do. Bye.’
Deborah scurried up the stairs, her heart beating hard. She was going to be a dinner guest at Barfield House. She telephoned her mother in Stratford-upon-Avon. Mrs Camden, a tired, faded woman,
worn out with years of work in looking after Deborah and her two brothers because Mr Camden had shot off for parts unknown shortly after Deborah, the youngest, had been born, listened to
Deborah’s excited voice bragging about how she was going to be a dinner guest at Barfield House.
‘Make sure your underwear’s clean,’ cautioned Mrs Camden. ‘You never know what might happen.’
And Deborah knew her mother did not mean that her daughter should be prepared for a night of lust but was simply expressing an old fear that one of her children might meet with an accident and
arrive at the hospital in dirty underwear.
The next morning Agatha did not rush to get to the
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