Our man in Camelot

The Englishman grinned ruefully. 'To be honest—I could use a first opinion. It's probably something ridiculously simple, but… I'm afraid I'm just not mechanically-minded.'

That was what Harry had said, but it was nice to have confirmation straight from the horse's mouth: it made for confidence in other directions.

'Gas okay?' Mosby lent over and sniffed. 'Yes, you're getting gas all right… And she turns over, so the battery's fine.'

'Doesn't fire…' Mosby busied himself doing nothing very much. 'No spark—the plugs are okay too—I guess it could be the ignition. And odd things happen with ignition parts, they go faulty for no reason. If there's something wrong with the coil—or maybe the distributor—then you're going to need a garage job…'

Shirley was advancing across the open space between the cars, heading towards the wife.

'Have you got far to travel?' she asked.

'Far to go?' The woman was slightly taken aback at the directness of the approach, her natural reserve battling with an equally natural inclination to be courteous with a friendly and helpful foreigner. 'No, not very far— six or seven miles. We've got a cottage at Bucklandworthy.'

'Bucklandworthy? Say, that's where we are. We're renting the white house on the headland—St Veryan's.'

'Down the road to the lighthouse?'

'That's right.' Shirley nodded eagerly. 'You know it?'

'Our cottage is on the corner—the Old Chapel—'

'With the thatched roof? Why, that makes us almost neighbours.'

Mosby finished his examination of the distributor. 'I can't see anything wrong, but that doesn't mean a thing…' He shook his head doubtfully.

Shirley craned her neck over his shoulder. 'Have you fixed it, honey?'

' 'Fraid not.' Mosby wiped his oily hands together. 'I just don't get it—I guess it must be electrical.'

'Is that bad?'

'Well, it looks like a garage job.' Mosby looked at the Englishman apologetically. 'Like you say, it's probably nothing much, but…' He shrugged, frowning again at the engine. At least there was no need for play-acting: whatever Harry had done was bound to be undetectable as well as ingeniously simple.

'Well, not to worry,' said Shirley cheerfully. 'Because these good people have that thatched cottage just Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

two steps up the road from us at Bucklandworthy—they're our neighbours, honey.'

'Huh?' Mosby looked up from the engine. 'What did you say?'

Shirley gave her new friend a despairing look. 'Once he gets his head in an engine—' her voice sharpened '— they live just next door to us almost, in that cute thatched cottage up the road from St Veryan's.'

Mosby allowed the light to dawn. 'Is that so?'

'We don't actually live there,' the wife explained. 'We're renting it for two months.'

'Two months!' Shirley looked around her. 'It really is beautiful down here, but I don't think I could last that long.'

Mosby gave a derisive grunt. 'Just because we have to pump the water from the well—honey, you just haven't any of the old pioneering spirit. You're a two-bath-a-day girl, that's the trouble.'

'I've got plenty of pioneering spirit. I just happen to prefer civilisation and company,' Shirley snapped.

'But never mind that—' her tone softened '—if you can't get that engine going, just quit playing with it.

We can take these good people right home to their door with no trouble at all.'

The wife looked uncertainly at her husband, then at her daughter. The child was hanging out of the car window staring round-eyed at Shirley. As well she might, thought Mosby: Ozymandias himself had nothing on Shirley, with the sculptor not born who could read those passions and the ice-cold heart that fed them.

Mosby grabbed the moment of uncertainty. 'We surely can—nothing easier. It'ud be a pleasure.' He swung towards the man. 'Besides, if I know anything about the local garage they're not going to have anyone to send down here straightaway, it'll be more like tomorrow morning. And you sure as hell don't have to worry about leaving the car down here, because no one's going to drive it away.'

'Well…' The man paused diffidently '… it's most awfully kind of you—'

'—it really is,' echoed the wife gratefully. 'I don't know what we should have done.'

'Not at all. There's plenty of room, and like my wife says, it's right there on our way. No trouble at all.'

The fish was hooked: now was the moment to make sure it didn't escape. He grinned at them both, playing out his assigned role to the last syllable. 'Come to that, I reckon you'd be doing us a good turn.

We haven't said a word to anyone since we've been down here but 'good morning' and 'thank you' and we're beginning to feel kind of cut off from society.'

'Isn't that the truth!' exclaimed Shirley. 'It's been almost as bad as when we got stuck in that village in the middle of nowhere in Spain, and there wasn't one single breathing person who spoke one word of English. I got so tired of my single Spanish phrase— Hay alguien que hable ingles?—and the answer was always No, which is the same in Spanish as it is in English. Muchas gracias and adios, that's how I felt.'