meeny, miney, Westhorpe. And I promise you can drive us back all the way to London Town, Bill.’
Even Armitage seemed content to be in the hands of Westhorpe who moved off smoothly and worked her way up through the gears, proceeding, on reaching a clear stretch of road, to put her foot down and try for the 70 mph Joe had assured them his otherwise unspectacular car was capable of.
‘Er, we don’t want to get there too early, Tilly,’ was all he would allow himself for comment.
To his surprise, Armitage leaned forward and engaged Westhorpe in conversation. Not very elevating conversation in Joe’s estimation but both seemed to find it absorbing enough: ‘What sort of car do you drive yourself, then, Constable?’
‘Oh, just a little thing. A two-seater sports car. A Bull-nose MG. A red one.’
‘Very nice too!’
‘Oh, underneath the pretty bodywork, you’ll find much the same chassis and engine as you’ve got in this Oxford.’
‘Ah! I thought you climbed behind the wheel with a lot of confidence.’
‘Easy to drive but one could always do with a bit more power.’
‘I’d have thought it was lively enough . . . gold medal in the London–Land’s End trial, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. I can get it to 60 mph from a standing start in twenty seconds so I suppose you’re right. And yourself, Sergeant? What do you drive?’
‘Anything I can get my hands on! I haven’t got a car of my own – not possible on a sergeant’s pay – but I trained in high speed driving and did six months in the Flying Squad.’
‘So you were a thief-taker?’ Tilly was impressed.
‘Yes. Not as exciting as it might sound though,’ said Armitage modestly. ‘Too many hours cooped up under cover with a squad of sweating coppers parked outside a bank, waiting for something to happen. And then, as often as not, we’d find the villains had a faster set of wheels.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘With so many motor bandits operating these days, someone up there in the hierarchy –’ he glanced at Joe to check that he was listening – ‘is going to have to bite the bullet and put in for something a little more lively than the old Crossley RFC tenders. Perhaps when they’ve re-equipped with Bentleys I’ll reapply.’
‘Now you’re talking! They say the new model will be able to do over 100 mph.’
Well, it was a start. Joe groaned in boredom, closed his eyes and tuned out.
Westhorpe slowed down as they approached their destination. They looked with varying degrees of appreciation and envy at the house coming into view about a quarter of a mile from the road. It was attractive; it was unpretentious. It was distorted as, over five hundred years, the timber frame had settled into the soft heart of the land. Through years of faithfully applied ochre lime wash, the silhouette had blurred to a point where the house seemed to belong to the earth. The many-faceted lead panes of the oak-mullioned windows gave back a reflected sparkle as they picked up the rays of the afternoon sun.
Distantly, two enormous pear trees of incalculable age and white with blossom like ships in full sail formed a background to the house, peering over the mossed confusion of the steep-tiled roof with its soaring cluster of chimney stacks. It was a house Joe would have counted himself blessed to possess.
The approach was by a narrow carriage drive running between two imposing gate piers. Westhorpe saw them first. ‘Look, sir! I think that’s a welcoming party forming up. Or are they preparing to repel boarders? Not, apparently, mourning the dear departed exactly.’
Joe caught sight of two small figures – no more than children – who had been loitering at the base of the stone piers and were now furiously climbing upwards. Joe could guess what they were up to. Every county magazine featured photographs of bright young things at country house parties posing on top of gate piers pretending to be stone lions or Egyptian deities.
Joe
Even Armitage seemed content to be in the hands of Westhorpe who moved off smoothly and worked her way up through the gears, proceeding, on reaching a clear stretch of road, to put her foot down and try for the 70 mph Joe had assured them his otherwise unspectacular car was capable of.
‘Er, we don’t want to get there too early, Tilly,’ was all he would allow himself for comment.
To his surprise, Armitage leaned forward and engaged Westhorpe in conversation. Not very elevating conversation in Joe’s estimation but both seemed to find it absorbing enough: ‘What sort of car do you drive yourself, then, Constable?’
‘Oh, just a little thing. A two-seater sports car. A Bull-nose MG. A red one.’
‘Very nice too!’
‘Oh, underneath the pretty bodywork, you’ll find much the same chassis and engine as you’ve got in this Oxford.’
‘Ah! I thought you climbed behind the wheel with a lot of confidence.’
‘Easy to drive but one could always do with a bit more power.’
‘I’d have thought it was lively enough . . . gold medal in the London–Land’s End trial, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. I can get it to 60 mph from a standing start in twenty seconds so I suppose you’re right. And yourself, Sergeant? What do you drive?’
‘Anything I can get my hands on! I haven’t got a car of my own – not possible on a sergeant’s pay – but I trained in high speed driving and did six months in the Flying Squad.’
‘So you were a thief-taker?’ Tilly was impressed.
‘Yes. Not as exciting as it might sound though,’ said Armitage modestly. ‘Too many hours cooped up under cover with a squad of sweating coppers parked outside a bank, waiting for something to happen. And then, as often as not, we’d find the villains had a faster set of wheels.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘With so many motor bandits operating these days, someone up there in the hierarchy –’ he glanced at Joe to check that he was listening – ‘is going to have to bite the bullet and put in for something a little more lively than the old Crossley RFC tenders. Perhaps when they’ve re-equipped with Bentleys I’ll reapply.’
‘Now you’re talking! They say the new model will be able to do over 100 mph.’
Well, it was a start. Joe groaned in boredom, closed his eyes and tuned out.
Westhorpe slowed down as they approached their destination. They looked with varying degrees of appreciation and envy at the house coming into view about a quarter of a mile from the road. It was attractive; it was unpretentious. It was distorted as, over five hundred years, the timber frame had settled into the soft heart of the land. Through years of faithfully applied ochre lime wash, the silhouette had blurred to a point where the house seemed to belong to the earth. The many-faceted lead panes of the oak-mullioned windows gave back a reflected sparkle as they picked up the rays of the afternoon sun.
Distantly, two enormous pear trees of incalculable age and white with blossom like ships in full sail formed a background to the house, peering over the mossed confusion of the steep-tiled roof with its soaring cluster of chimney stacks. It was a house Joe would have counted himself blessed to possess.
The approach was by a narrow carriage drive running between two imposing gate piers. Westhorpe saw them first. ‘Look, sir! I think that’s a welcoming party forming up. Or are they preparing to repel boarders? Not, apparently, mourning the dear departed exactly.’
Joe caught sight of two small figures – no more than children – who had been loitering at the base of the stone piers and were now furiously climbing upwards. Joe could guess what they were up to. Every county magazine featured photographs of bright young things at country house parties posing on top of gate piers pretending to be stone lions or Egyptian deities.
Joe
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