The Old Vengeful

On a television screen? In a newspaper?

He leaned forward slightly towards her. 'How much?'

With an effort Elizabeth shook herself free of second thoughts. 'I'm sorry—it's ?1 .50,' she said, fumbling the book out of the line.

'?1 .50?' He smiled at her.

'It's a mint copy.' It was one of Father's author's copies in fact. 'And it's in aid of the church tower restoration fund, so I don't think it's too expensive.'

'I wasn't questioning the price, Miss Loftus.' He took the book from her and opened it at the fly-leaf. 'I was just hoping that it would be signed—I see that it isn't. . . but it's cheap at the price, anyway. Only ... it would have been even dummy3

cheaper with a signature—at the price—wouldn't it?' He smiled again.

Elizabeth swallowed. 'I'm sorry. I haven't got a signed copy.'

'No matter. Perhaps you could sign it instead?' He produced a pen, and held the book open for her.

'I don't see . . .' Elizabeth trailed off.

'The next best thing, Miss Loftus. If not the hero himself, then the hero's daughter. I would have preferred The Dover Patrol—more my period. But this will do very well.'

He was an academic, she ought to have guessed that even though she hadn't started to try to guess what he was: the mixture of confidence and that slightly degage air, plus the Oxbridge voice, were clues enough. Yet, if he was an academic TV or newspaper personality, she still couldn't place him. But there was an easy way of getting round that now.

She accepted the pen and the book. 'To whom shall I inscribe it?'

'Paul Mitchell—'Mitchell' with the usual 't'.'

That didn't help matters, even though something still nagged at the back of her mind.

' 'To Paul Mitchell from Elizabeth Loftus'—there, for what it's worth.' She smiled back at him. 'That's the first time I've ever signed a book. But I don't think I've added to its value.'

'On the contrary.' He studied the inscription for a moment, then looked at her appraisingly. 'For such a unique dummy3

collector's item . . . shall we say ?5?'

Elizabeth's worst suspicions were pleasurably encouraged.

Fortune hunters were out of date, and in any case the details of her official inheritance—let alone the rest of it all—couldn't possibly be common knowledge. But he was up to something, that was certain.

'The price is ?1.50, Mr Mitchell. I couldn't possibly accept more.' She took his ?5 note.

'Mint condition?' He raised the book between them. 'The going price in Blackwell's at Oxford for this is ?9.95, you know.'

So he had done his homework, but if he was trying to pick her up that was to be expected.

'It's still ?1.50.' That 'Blackwell's at Oxford' was a nice touch, well-calculated to arouse her happiest memories, if that was what was intended. Yet, once identified for what it was, it armoured her against him. 'Do you mind taking your change mostly in silver?'

'I don't want any change.' Her intransigence was beginning to unsettle him. 'Keep it for the church tower.'

She began to count out the 10p pieces from her cash-box.

'You can give them all to the Vicar's wife, then—she's sitting just down the end there, and she'll give you raffle tickets in exchange. You might win a bottle of whisky or an LP. And even if you don't win anything, she'll give you a pamphlet on the history of the church for free . . . seeing as you're dummy3

interested in history, Mr Mitchell.'

That, and ?3.50 in 10p pieces, ought to damp down his ambitions, whatever they were. And besides, there was a customer waiting further up the table.

She pushed the piles of coins towards him. 'Excuse me . . .'

But when she had completed the sale of One Hundred Great Lives and Civilisation on Trial, at 40p the pair, he was still there with his coins untouched, looking just a little forlorn.

'Yes, Mr Mitchell?' Elizabeth's conscience tweaked her slightly. It was after all a church sale, and she had not given him the benefit of any doubt whatsoever, in all Christian charity.

He spread his hands. 'Miss Loftus, I confess ... I was also hoping to buy a little of your time.'

So at least they had come to the crunch on her terms, thought Elizabeth smugly. 'My time?'

'Just that. At least, to start with ... I want to put a proposition to you.'

Elizabeth's hackles rose. She looked up the table for more customers, but there were none, so she could hardly set any price on her time, which patently had no value here and now.

'A proposition?' She could hear the harshness in her voice which was normally reserved for scholarship girls who allowed their precocious sex lives to intrude into the work which had to be done, and who then attempted to fob her off with transparent excuses. 'What proposition?'

dummy3