Mr Tharkell’s house was Georgian and stood high on a terrace.

A little farther along, on the opposite side of the road, was a farmhouse, whitewashed and neatly thatched, flanked by a dazzling white cloud of pear or cherry trees in full bloom. And then the cottages began, each one as pretty as a postcard, or an embroidered tea-cosy. Most-were whitewashed, though some were pale pink or greenish blue; all were thatched. The long gardens blazed with wallflowers and polyanthus, daffodils and tulips. They stood along the left-hand side of the road. To the right, the grass verge had widened out and become a village green, roughly triangular in shape. Directly ahead, occupying the whole of the shortest side of the triangle, was a high red wall, with a pair of iron gates set between ornamental pillars.

‘The Rectory’s in there, with the church beyond,’ Ed said. He turned right and drove between the Rectory wall and the Green, then right again, where the road ended in a cul-de-sac.

‘Here we are,’ he said, beginning to slow down. This piece of road served only two houses. One was a sprawling, new-looking bungalow with a deep veranda, which brought to mind the houses built by prosperous people in Africa; the other was a Georgian dolls’ house, prim and symmetrical behind a clipped box hedge, solid as a wall, upon whose top two topiary peacocks stood, one on each side of an elegant wrought-iron gate. A paved path ran from the gate to the porticoed doorway; on either side of the path was an oblong of smooth grass, which, near the house, gave way to a rose bed.

‘You mean that this is the school house?’

‘Thass right. The school is two minutes’ walk away, down that little lane alongside the Rectory.’

‘But it’s so . . . elegant. I wasn’t expecting anything like this. You are sure?’

‘I towd you, I brought Mrs Westleton, time her car broke down. She was grousing about it not heving a garage. She kept her car at the Rectory. You aiming to keep a car?’

‘I can’t drive; and I certainly wouldn’t dare begin now.’

Their arrival had been expected. The door of the dolls’ house opened, and a young woman came hurrying down the path. She smiled, showing a beautiful set of teeth, and said:

‘Welcome to Walwyk, Miss Mayfield. Canon said I was to say it the very first thing. I’m Berta Creek.’

Miss Mayfield knew a moment of embarrassment. In the old days, before she went to Africa, one would simply have said, ‘Good morning, Berta.’ But since then egalitarian manners had come in and familiarity might be resented. So she stretched out her hand and said, ‘Good morning, Miss Creek,’ and so made her first wrong step in Walwyk. Far from being pleased, the young woman was resentful.