Free Eight Days of Luke by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

said.
    â€œThat plant,” said Mr. Chew, “has been burned. Hasn’t it? You tell me how.”
    â€œI don’t know,” David said. After all, he thought, he did not know why it should be burned just because Luke had climbed up it.
    â€œYou don’t know?” said Mr. Chew.
    â€œNo,” said David.
    â€œI’ll talk to you again later,” said Mr. Chew, “and maybe you’ll remember why by then.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said David. “I don’t know.”
    â€œYou’ll remember,” Mr. Chew said. He said it slowly, and each word fell out like a heavy, menacing clod of earth. “You’d better remember.”
    David backed gently away. He was rather frightened of Mr. Chew; but on the other hand, he was quite used to people threatening him and trying to make him say and do things he did not want to. He found threats even easier to ignore than guilt. “I’ll see you later then,” he said.
    â€œYou will,” Mr. Chew promised.
    David wandered away round the house. Eight minutes had passed. If Luke were not out of the house by now, there was nothing to be done. Mr. Chew had clearly decided that the interview was over and to go on hanging round him was just asking for trouble. David went out of the gate and down the road, wondering how he could find out where Luke was by now, and looked hopefully over gates into gardens as he went, in case Luke was hiding in one of them. He looked over the gate that used to be the Clarksons’ and found himself staring into the face of an old gentleman who was spraying roses there.
    â€œGood morning to you,” said the old gentleman. “And who might you be? Do you live near here?”
    David explained who he was and where he lived.
    â€œAh,” said the old gentleman. “And I am Mr. Fry. How do you do?” He proved to be the most courteous and chatty of old gentlemen—the kind of person Luke could have dealt with beautifully. David stood on one leg, then on the other, and picked loose paint off the gatepost, while Mr. Fry told him that he had almost completed his collection of the people who lived in the road, and that David and his relations were the last people he had not met. He wanted to know all about Aunt Dot and Uncle Bernard, and what work Cousin Ronald did. David had never seen Cousin Ronald work, so he could not tell Mr. Fry. Then Mr. Fry made him promise to tell Uncle Bernard that he and Mrs. Fry would call in one day that week. And at last he let David go.
    David shot round the corner into the main road. Luke, no doubt as a disguise, was standing among a line of people at the bus stop. He fell into step beside David as David passed.
    â€œWhat happened?” they both said at the same time. Then of course they both laughed.
    â€œI got away fairly quickly,” Luke said. “I told your Aunt Dot I had to go home for breakfast. But I thought you were never coming. What happened?”
    David told him. “And I don’t think Mr. Chew is stupid,” he said.
    â€œYes he is,” said Luke. “Anyone else would have seen it was no good trying to frighten you.”
    David was highly gratified. “I was frightened,” he admitted.
    â€œWhat if you were?” said Luke. “It wouldn’t make you say anything important. The way to get you talking is to be friendly—and I just hope none of them realize that.” He frowned down at the pavement in a worried way. “David,” he said, “I shouldn’t keep asking you to do things—it ought to be the other way round—but could you promise not to tell anyone, anyone about me? Really about me, I mean.”
    â€œOf course,” David said. He hoped Luke would go on and explain why, but Luke simply looked at the pavement with his forehead all wrinkled and said nothing. David tried to encourage him by making a joke. “Funny,” he said, “that Mr. Chew