> Daisy came across as we stayed there talking about the murder and
removed our tea cups with a bad grace, clinking crockery together so
hard it was a miracle she didn’t break anything.

“Going to be long, are we?” she asked pointedly.

I coughed. “No, not all – just off.”

“Actually,” said Sarah, a sudden and stubborn light in her eye as she
caught at my arm to prevent me from getting up, “I wanted another cup
of tea. And a macaroon. Will that be all right?”

Daisy’s lips thinned. “Of course. I shall be *delighted* to provide
you with whatever you select from our excellent menu.”

“See?” I hissed. “There’s something not right about this place.”

She raised her eyebrows at me and leant forward. “I didn’t think you
were a coward, Dr Sullivan.”

That stung. “I’m not,” I returned at once. “I don’t see the point of
-.”

“I’m watching someone,” she informed me in an undertone, nodding
beyond me. "That man has been here for ages. And he was here
yesterday, too."

I moved to turn and look, but she kicked me under the table. That
hurt as well. “Miss Smith!”

“Call me Sarah if we’re as good as engaged,” she said. “If you get
and fetch me the sugar bowl from that table, then you can tell me who
he is.”

I was beginning to get annoyed. “I’m not going to do everything you
tell me, Miss Smith. In fact, maybe I do have one or two patients to
see to this afternoon -.”

“You told me you didn’t,” she reminded me. “You’re lying, Dr
Sullivan.”

I sighed. “Still.”

“If I say please very nicely and buy you another scone, will you get
me the sugar bowl and tell me who that man is?” She beamed at me.

I should have known better, but I couldn’t help but feel mollified.
“Since it might help with finding the murderer, I will. And of course
I’m not letting you pay, old thing.”

I got up and, with an apology to Miss Smythe and Miss Rumford who were
sitting on the nearest table, moved across to an empty table and
reached out for the sugar bowl.

“Dr Sullivan,” said the proprietress, there before me somehow. She
gave me a beautifully insincere smile. “If you wanted more sugar for
your table, you should have *asked*. Priscilla or Daisy would have
been only too happy to provide you with some. And – how odd – your
bowl looks quite full to me. Is there a problem with it?”

“Fly landed on it,” I improvised. “Miss Smith was a bit squeamish
about it, so I thought I’d go find another. Terribly sorry, Mrs A.”

She passed the sugar lumps to me. “Next time, Dr Sullivan, ask nicely
instead of stealing.”

“I say, that’s a bit steep,” I protested.

*

When I sat back down, Sarah looked at me expectantly. I stared back
at her as I passed her the new sugar bowl.

“Well, who he is?”

I said, “I didn’t get a chance to look, what with that old dragon
landing on me like that. Accused me of trying to pinch the sugar!”

I realised I hadn’t redeemed myself in her eyes. So I rose, adjusted
my coat on the chair and discreetly glanced over at the lone gentleman
sitting in the corner.

“It’s Colonel Mace,” I said, once I’d finished. “You’re right. This
isn’t the sort of place I’d expect to find him. Wonder what he’s
doing here?”

Daisy brought us a fresh pot of tea and a macaroon.

“Thank you,” I said.

She glared at me again, but managed to force another smile. “I’m
happy you’re glad.”

“Sarah,” I said, leaning forward. “Can we please get out of here?”

Sarah gave me a mischievous smile. “Not until I’ve finished this
macaroon. I don’t know who cooks for them, but they must be a
genius.”

*

“So, shall I run you over to Namechester and pretend there’s a problem
with my car?” I offered. “That should give us a good excuse to visit
the garage and meet this McCrimmon fellow.”

Sarah turned in surprise. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

I decided that it was no use my trying to impress her. “We could go
now, if you liked.”

“We should try to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible,” she
agreed. “If you don’t mind, I just need to pop back to Professor
Smith’s. He asked me to fetch this parcel for him, so I’d better take
it up.

Wonderful, I thought. Now the professor could throw things at me
again for turning up where I wasn’t wanted.

“You don’t have to come,” she said, obviously seeing something of my
feelings on my face.

I smiled at her. “Oh, I shall. What if the old boy should turn out
to be the villain of the piece?”

“If he was a little bit more agile, that mightn’t be a bad idea,” she
said with a laugh. “He’d make rather a good murderer.”

I walked along the path with her. “I don’t think you can call a
murderer good.”

“Don’t be pernickety, Dr Sullivan. You know exactly what I meant.”

*

“Dr Sullivan, at last!” said Professor Smith, on our arrival. “I’m
delighted to see you, my boy. I’ve been having terrible trouble with
my knee today. Perhaps you could take a look?”

I still had my bag from this morning, luckily. I’d drop it off later
when we fetched the car. “Of course, Professor.”

“I got your parcel,” Sarah announced, placing it on the table beside
her. “It feels heavy enough. What is it?”

He darted a bright glance in her direction. “You’re an inquisitive
young lady, aren’t you? Books, my dear! What did you expect? Books
– very interesting things, aren’t they, Dr Sullivan?”

“Eh?” I said, my mind more on his knee at the time.

He chuckled to himself. “Perhaps it was your uncle, Dr Sheppard, I
was thinking of – always so fond of reading – and of writing
everything down.”

“Was he?” I returned without much interest. The only book my uncle
had left me other than medical texts had been a notebook that turned
out to be blank, so I couldn’t say one way or the other.

“Talking of writing,” he said, with a sigh, “I have such problems with
my fingers – arthritis, you know – perhaps Miss Smith would be kind
enough to write out a letter for me? What with poor dear Polly gone
-.”

He actually looked sorry for once and frail with it. Sarah patted
him on the shoulder and told him she’d be happy to write whatever he
wanted. While I fished in my bag for the prescription pad, she took
down a letter of outrage to a scientific journal that hadn’t dealt
with his findings in a manner that met his approval.

“To the distinguished gentleman,” he began grandly, “I must
reluctantly inform you that I am no longer prepared to take any more
of your insults and slights against my articles. I have had quite
enough and am not prepared to go on any longer submitting works to
your journal. The editorial comment on my last article for you was
written in a grossly inappropriate tone. This is the last straw. If
I do not receive an immediate and full apology, our work together must
cease as of this date.

Yours, John Smith.”

Sarah bit back a smile. “I’m sure that’ll tell them, Dr Smith.”

*

“Right, shall we be off to Namechester, then?”

Miss Smith gave me a brisk nod. “Lead on, Dr Sullivan.”

I walked alongside her back to my house. I had to pop in, drop off my
bag and what have you. I’d hoped Mrs Hudson wouldn’t be there, but
she was. Whenever I want her to be around to get something done,
she’s off gossiping at the Post Office, but you can be certain that if
I want some piece and quiet, she’ll have decided to start a mass
clearance campaign.

“Dr Sullivan,” she greeted me in a tone that made me feel more like a
truant schoolboy than the village GP. “Where have you been?”

I tried to smile nicely. “Here and there, Mrs Hudson. Um, this is
Miss Sarah Jane Smith. She’s a journalist.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sarah, holding out her hand.

My housekeeper stared back at her, merely giving her a sniff and a nod
in return. “My pleasure, I’m sure, Miss.” She glanced at me and
signalled me over with little subtlety.

“Mrs Hudson, we are rather busy – we need to be off to Namechester
before it’s a bit late -.”

She put her hands on her hips, still holding a tea towel. “Dr
Sullivan, nothing was said to me about you bringing girls home here.
It’s not right and I can’t be working here if this sort of thing is
going to go on.”

“I’m only dropping off my bag,” I said, beginning to feel annoyed.
“Mrs Hudson, that’s an unreasonable thing to go suggesting. Sarah’s
not that sort of girl and in any case, this is my house and it’s none
of your business.”

She sniffed again. “You won’t say that when you have to try doing
your own washing.”

“It’s all right,” said Sarah, joining us. She smiled seraphically at
Mrs Hudson. “You needn’t worry – we’re engaged.”

*

“Oh, come on, Dr Sullivan,” she said in the car later. “You can’t
sulk all the way to Namechester.”

I concentrated on the road with dignity. “I’m not sulking,” I
informed her. “I’m not sure that I have anything to say to you if you
think that was helpful.”

“No, I thought it was funny,” she said.

I glared at her. “Well, it jolly well wasn’t! Going to the tea shop
was bad enough, but now you’ll have set the whole village off,
gossiping about us. You might be able to scarper off back to London
when you’ve finished here, but I’ve got a practice to keep up.”

Sarah only grabbed at the wheel, which I objected to, until I realised
that we were on the wrong side of the road. “Watch where you’re
going!”

“Then perhaps you’d better not talk to me until we get there,” I
suggested. I mean, I wasn’t sulking, but it’s hardly fair of a girl
to go putting a chap in this sort of position and then thinking the
whole thing is a joke.

She sighed. “Oh, all right. I’m sorry I told your housekeeper we
were engaged, but really! What era is she stuck in?”

“An awful lot of these old biddies are positively Victorian,” I said.
“Not much you can do, except to go along with them.”

Sarah stared out of the window. “She was the one who started it,
being rude.”

“As I was trying to point out to her before you stepped in,” I
returned, as we entered Namechester. Another ominous silence
followed, until I coughed and asked, “You don’t happen to know where
this garage is, do you?”