definitely mixed. Deep inside him there was a hard core of bitterness about the whole affair, and no amount of soul-searching would convince him he was doing the right thing. He had said he would do it for Francis’ sake, but was that entirely true
He shifted irritably, unwilling to investigate his motives. He was here now, he had to go through with it. Twilight was deepening, but there were lights up ahead and he turned on the car’s lights to read the sign. He almost missed it, a gravestone-like fixture at the side of the road, half hidden by the long grass. He wondered if the connotation was significant and then shook his head impatiently. This was no time for self-doubt or self-delusion.
The village was small, a collection of cottages clustered about a cobbled square. There was the inevitable telephone box outside the post office, a general dealers, which looked as though it sold everything, but probably didn’t, and the inn. The Golden Pheasant! Joel’s mouth turned down at the corners. It made a change from the Black Bull or the Bay Horse, he supposed. It certainly did not have the appearance of a five-star hostelry, but if the beds were clean and the beer was cold, he would have no objections.
There were one or two teenagers loafing about in the square, and the sight of the sleek cream Mercedes attracted a few coarse comments. Joel was forced to leave the car outside the inn, trusting to God and providence that no one would run a rusty nail along its side. Where was the age-old rustic charm he had imagined? Gone like everything else beneath the heel of indifference? At least there was no regimented housing estate encroaching on the village boundaries, and it was too far from the nearest town to attract evening commuters.
Leaving his one case in the boot, Joel pulled his sheepskin jacket on over his shirt and pants, and sliding the knot of his tie up to his collar he entered the bar entrance which appeared to be the only means of access. It was still comparatively early in the evening, and there were only one or two elderly patrons occupying the tables in the bar, but the girl who was serving was young, and pretty too if you liked buxom blondes. She was obviously intrigued by the appearance of a dark stranger, and Joel could feel her assessing him from the thickness of his straight hair to the soles of his suede boots. What she saw she apparently approved of, because the look she bestowed on him was warm and encouraging.
“Yes, sir? What will it be?”
Joel hesitated, then he drew his wallet out of his inside pocket. “Oh — er — I’ll have a beer.” He glanced round. “You do take overnight visitors here, don’t you?”
The girl filled his glass and pushed the foaming beverage across to him. Her eyes had widened and she was regarding him curiously now. “Overnight visitors, sir? At the inn? Well, I think Mr. Harris takes one or two. I’m not sure whether at this time of year…” She handed him the change from a pound note, holding his gaze with her own. “Would you like me to find out for you?”
Joel slid the silver into his pocket. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he agreed, raising the glass to his lips and drinking thirstily.
The girl regarded him for another inquisitive moment, and then with a shrug she turned and went out. Joel lowered his weight on to a bar stool. The beer was good — cold, as he liked it, and refreshing after his hours at the wheel. He was aware that his presence was causing a minor argument in the corner between two of the older patrons, and he guessed they got few visitors in Langthwaite at this time of year.
The girl was coming back and with her was a middle-aged man, obviously the licensee. Joel forced a smile and had it doubtfully returned. “You’re wanting accommodation, I hear,” Mr. Harris stated, leaning on the bar. “Would it be for long?”
“One night only, I expect,” replied Joel evenly.
“You’re a traveller, then, sir?” suggested the older man, curiously, but Joel shook his head.
“I — I have business in Langthwaite,” he conceded, realising that by saying nothing he was likely to be turned away. “Can you put me up?”
“Well, it’s nothing fancy like,” retorted Mr. Harris. “There is a room you can have. My wife’s making up the bed now. Would you be wanting meals as well?”
Joel restrained the impulse to swear. Of course he wanted meals. Did they think he was without the normal demands of the human body? “If — that’s possible,” he remarked, with admirable calmness. “Naturally, I don’t expect your wife to put herself out for one guest. Some sandwiches this evening would do fine, and perhaps some toast in the morning.”
Mrs. Harris, or at least Joel assumed it was that lady, appeared behind them. “Is this the gentleman who is wanting to stay the night?” she asked, and her husband nodded. “Very well, sir. Your room’s ready. And I expect you’re hungry, aren’t you?”
“I — well —” Joel looked helplessly at Mr. Harris, and he nodded with a finality that displayed a decision made.
“Yes, Ellie. The gentleman — I don’t know your name, do I, sir? — he is hungry—”
“Kingdom,” said Joel at once, “Joel Kingdom. From London.”
In what seemed a remarkably short space of time, he was shown to his room on the first floor, given free use of the bathroom, and then fed in a tiny dining room which he suspected was generally only used by the family. Mrs. Harris herself served him, although the blonde from the bar found the excuse to pop in and out asking him whether he had everything he wanted. Joel, who was used to the effect his swarthy attraction had on the opposite sex, found her obvious charms less than appealing, and his mouth was wry by the time he had eaten soup, cold roast beef and pickles, and a piece of Mrs. Harris’s crusty apple pie.
Mrs. Harris herself bustled in as he was finishing the lager he had had with the meal and she looked gratified at his empty plate. “You enjoyed it, then, sir?”
Joel nodded, massaging the aching muscles of his left shoulder. “It was very good, thank you, Mrs. Harris. You’ve been very kind.”
Mrs. Harris beamed, her plump face mirroring her pleasure. “And you’re only staying until tomorrow?” she asked, beginning to gather the dirty dishes together.
Joel rose to his feet. “I hope so.” Then, as she quickly looked up, he added: “I mean, of course, I hope my business doesn’t take longer than that.” He sighed. “I have to get back to London.”
“You work in London, Mr. Kingdom?”
“Sometimes.” Joel was non-committal.
“But your home’s there?”
“You could say that.”
Mrs. Harris was clearly trying to find an opening to ask what business he had in Langthwaite, and Joel was equally unwilling to assist her. He suppressed a yawn with his hand, and said:
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Harris, I’ll go up to my room now. It’s been a long day, and I am rather tired.”
Mrs. Harris hid her frustration. “Of course, sir. You know where it is?”
“Of course.” Joel smiled, and the woman responded to the spreading charm it generated. “I’ll say goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, sir.” Mrs. Harris smiled in return, and Joel turned to cross the hall to the stiarcase.
The blonde appeared in the doorway to the bar. “Aren’t
