Free Caroline Minuscule by Andrew Taylor Page A

killed.’
    Dougal nodded. He was trying to remember what Hanbury had said in his letter – something about getting out before Lee should have the slightest ground for suspicion. It would be stupid to stay here. Why risk what they had for . . .
    â€˜It simplifies things for us, doesn’t it?’ continued Amanda. She looked at him. ‘Oh, come on, William! We can’t chicken out now. It’s just getting interesting.’
    Before he had time to say anything, Mrs Livabed approached and asked if they wanted some more coffee. Amanda said yes and ordered two brandies as well. When she had gone, Dougal said:
    â€˜I’m a bit scared – aren’t you? We’re playing outside our league. I don’t want us to end up dead.’ It was hard to make a whisper sound convincing.
    Amanda explained succinctly why they were not risking anything by staying here for a day or two and, well, being open to suggestion. She managed to make Dougal feel that to do otherwise would be a despicable course of action – not so much by her words as by her eyes, which looked large and expectant, as if daring the world to disappoint her. The world might have been able to, but Dougal certainly couldn’t. And, having decided to go along with her, he was about to suggest they think up an excuse for asking questions when Mrs Livabed returned.
    She set the tray on their table. ‘It’s not stopped raining since you came. Pouring down. Mad, that’s what they are – Mr Lee and Mr Tanner – going out in this weather. They’ll get soaked. As if there wasn’t drink enough in here.’
    â€˜Perhaps they were visiting friends who live nearby,’ said Amanda sweetly. ‘Or maybe they’re the sort who don’t enjoy their pleasures unless they make an effort for them.’
    Mrs Livabed laughed, a sound which took twenty years from her age. ‘You could be right there, my dear. Men are a funny lot, present company excepted, of course. And don’t I know it.’ Her tone hinted at a limitless reservoir of personal knowledge on the subject. ‘We get all sorts here. You’re from London, then?’
    Her curiosity was so lacking in self-consciousness that Dougal couldn’t be offended by it. Anyway, it gave him the perfect opening to show Amanda that he was perfectly capable of dealing with this business in his own way.
    â€˜Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m a writer, actually.’ He sipped the brandy and could feel it joining the wine and beer which had gone before it, lubricating both his imagination and his tongue. ‘This is by way of a working holiday for us.’
    â€˜You don’t say. I’d never have guessed. You don’t look at all like Mr Pooterkin – he was the last writer we had here. Are you interested in the cathedral too?’
    â€˜Yes, but not in the same way. I’m a freelance writer for television, you see. I want to investigate the possibility of a documentary series on cathedral cities – you know the sort of thing: old and new – picturesque history, local buildings, interviews with people who live here, local industries, how the cathedral affects the city and . . . er . . . so on.’
    Mrs Livabed was fascinated.
    â€˜Which channel’s it going to be, dear? We get BBC of course, but otherwise you can only get Anglia properly.’
    â€˜I don’t know yet. Early days. I have to write a proposal for a series and then get some company interested. It’s not an easy market to break into, of course – especially nowadays.’ Mrs Livabed nodded solemnly, and Dougal almost laughed aloud: it was so easy to sound convincing about something you knew nothing about. ‘We’re down here to soak up the atmosphere and so forth – get an idea of the potential. Which reminds me – we were reading this booklet about the cathedral by . . .’ Dougal glanced down at the cover ‘. .