Our man in Camelot

Mosby gave the man a meaningful look, almost a pleading one, and received a guarded flicker of sympathy in return. So Harry's psychology had been right on the button: the moment of gratitude was also the most vulnerable one. Remember what the Good Samaritan probably said to the guy as he rolled on the bandages: 'Going down to Jericho, eh? Say, maybe you could give me an introduction to the Chamber of Commerce there?'

'I'm afraid we do tend to be rather stand-offish as a people,' admitted the wife apologetically, in an attempt to fill the awkward silence. 'It's a national defect, you know.'

'I think the language has a lot to answer for,' Mosby grinned at her. 'I'll never forget Shirley's face Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

when the milkman said he was going to knock her up on Sunday morning. And all he wanted to do was settle the week's bill, but she thought—'

'That'll do, honey,' Shirley cut in quickly, frowning at him. 'I'm sure these good people would rather be on their way home than hear about how I pay the milkman—'

Mosby caught the Englishman's eye again, saw that the double-entendre had registered, and burst out laughing, 'Oh, God, honey—how you pay the milkman—!'

Shirley sighed helplessly as she turned back to the English couple. 'You have to forgive my husband…

There are times when he's just not fit for decent company.'

This time the Englishwoman laughed. 'I have just the same trouble with my husband. It's the nature of the male animal—'Slugs and snails and—' '

' 'Puppy-dogs' tails'', supplemented her daughter. ' 'That's what boys is made of.''

That's right!' Shirley's good humour returned with the discovery of well-informed allies. 'And you are made of sugar and spice and all things nice, I can see that right away. And what's your name, honey?'

'Cathy.' The little girl extended a small, dirty hand.

'Cathy. Why, that's a lovely name—aren't you lucky!' Shirley shook the hand formally before turning again to the mother. 'And I'm Shirley—Shirley Sheldon. And this is my husband, Mose.'

'Mosby,' corrected Mosby quickly, bitter for the ten millionth time that he had never been able to escape that hideous diminutive.

'Mosby,' echoed Shirley, flashing him a malicious smile. 'Mosby Singleton Sheldon the Third—he doesn't like anyone to get the idea that 'Mose' is short for 'Moses' but he still answers to it if I smile nicely.'

The Englishwoman smiled. 'Well, I'm Faith Audley, and this is my husband David.'

'Hi, David,' said Shirley.

'Hullo.' Audley nodded to Mosby. 'It's very kind of you to come to our rescue, Mr Sheldon.'

Smiles all round, ice broken, small talk in the afternoon sunshine: Hi, David—call me Shirley… Hi, Faith—call me Mosby.

Meet your friendly neighbours from the CIA

They rode in silence for a few moments, while Mosby manoeuvred the big car round the worst of the pot-holes to reach the beginning of the track. But silence was okay at this point; the hook was well and truly fixed, only the fish was a big one and needed careful handling still or it might break the line and get clear away. This was the time to let a sense of obligation and good manners combine to override that self-confessed national defect and force one of them to make the running.

'Mosby?' Naturally it was Faith who spoke first. 'That's an unusual Christian name—obviously a family name.'

'Yes, ma'am. At least, it's become one.'

Shirley gave a short laugh, half derisive and half affectionate. 'Actually it's a piece of genuine American history. But you'll never have heard of the original Mosby, I'll bet.'

She was good, she was real good, thought Mosby with admiration. Good and quick to turn an opportunity into an opening the subject would find irresistible. Even that last 'I'll bet' was a shrewd piece of psychology aimed at the target.

'American history?' The challenge roused Audley.

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

'Uh-huh, American history,' she led him on lightly.

'Mosby… Mosby…' Audley repeated the name, frowning. 'I seem to remember there was a Mosby—in fact a John S. Mosby. If that 'S' stood for 'Singleton' that would be the one, I take it?'

'Why, you're absolutely right!' Shirley clapped her hands in admiration. 'Well, fancy your having heard of him. Isn't that something, Mose? You're famous even over here.'

Faith Audley turned towards her husband. 'And who was John Mosby, darling?'

'Colonel John S. Mosby.' Audley looked at Mosby with obvious interest. 'American Civil War. He was a celebrated Confederate guerrilla leader. Played merry hell with General Grant's lines of communication. That right, Mr Sheldon?'

Mosby grimaced. 'Well, not a guerrilla leader—that's damn Yankee propaganda. He was a regular horse soldier, 1st Virginia Cavalry, and then a scout to old Jeb Stuart himself. And what the Yankees called guerrillas were Mosby's Rangers— 43rd Battalion of the Virginia Cavalry.'

'I do beg your pardon.' Audley's eyes lit with pleasure. 'And the 43rd's pardon too.'

'Aw, honey, they were guerrillas,' exclaimed Shirley, coming to Audley's rescue. 'Why, the Yankees even hanged some of them. And they put a price on Mosby's head too—what was it, $5,000?' She grinned at Audley. 'So he wasn't all that expensive.'