‘I’ll get it fixed.’

‘But I haven’t even locked the doors! I’ve got loads of stuff in there—’

‘Flaming Nora! What’s more important, Arthur’s life or your ... stuff?’ Eddie stared across at his passenger, exasperated. Then, remembering he mustn’t alienate her, he forced himself to smile.

‘Pru, please. Let’s get Arthur to the vet first. As soon as he’s been seen to, I’ll sort everything out with you. That’s a promise, okay?’

Feeling horribly ashamed of herself, because as far as she was concerned Arthur’s life wasn’t nearly as important as the contents of her car, Pru nodded and gave in. She couldn’t help not being keen on dogs. An unprovoked attack on her as a child by a neighbour’s Alsatian had left vivid scars on her mind as well as her arm. But to be fair, that hadn’t been Arthur’s fault.

To make up for being heartless, Pru twisted round and took another look at the animal snoring on the back seat.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I don’t know. I woke up half an hour ago and found him like that. Out cold on the kitchen floor.’

Eddie’s voice wavered. For an awful second Pru wondered if he was going to cry. He was desperately worried, she realised. No wonder he had been driving like a maniac along Brunton Lane.

And then, quite suddenly, something Dulcie had mentioned in passing last week popped into her head .. .

The vet, who lived above his surgery in Primrose Hill, was used to being woken up at unearthly hours by frantic pet owners.

‘He’ll live,’ he pronounced, when he had finished examining Arthur.

Arthur, opening a weary eye, looked appalled by the prospect and promptly closed it again.

‘Thank God, thank God.’ This time Eddie’s eyes filled with quivering tears of relief. ‘But what caused it? What did he have, some kind of convulsion?’

The vet shook his head.

‘More like some kind of cognac.’ Laconically he added, ‘Or it could’ve been Scotch.’

Pru, perched on a stool a safe distance from the examination table, exclaimed, ‘You mean he’s drunk?’

The vet nodded. Eddie stared at him, dumbfounded.

‘Glenfiddich,’ mumbled Eddie. ‘I was drinking it last night. I fell asleep in the armchair. When I woke up this morning I saw the bottle on its side. Thought I must have knocked it over with my foot.’

Arthur whined and rolled his eyes open again, the effort clearly immense.

‘Oh my poor boy,’ Eddie consoled him, stroking his head. ‘You must feel terrible.’

‘Take him home and let him have plenty of water,’ said the vet. ‘No Scotch with it this time. The last thing Arthur needs is the hair of the dog.’

‘Right,’ said Pru, when they had loaded Arthur gently back into the car, ‘time to call the police.’

He gave her a pained look. ‘Could we just get Arthur home first?’

Pru gazed steadily at Eddie Hammond over the Jag’s glossy red roof. Then she held out her hand, palm upwards. ‘I’ll drive.’

He twitched visibly.

‘Why?’

‘Because you lost your licence last week.’

Staring back at her, Eddie said nothing. Finally, wearily, he nodded.

‘Yes.’

’What was it, drink-driving?’

Eddie looked offended.

‘Certainly not. Only speeding. And jumping a red light. Nothing desperate,’ he went on defensively. ‘No big deal. They got me on points. Three months and a bit of a fine, that’s all.’

‘No wonder you didn’t want me to call the police,’ said Pru. ‘Driving when you’ve been banned.

No insurance. Causing an accident. And how much did you have to drink last night, before falling asleep in your armchair?’ She consulted her watch. ‘It’s only seven thirty. You’re probably still over the limit.’

Wordlessly Eddie passed over the keys. He knew Dulcie but had never actually spoken to Pru before. Having assumed she was the quiet, biddable one, he was experiencing a distinct sense of unease. Right now she looked about as biddable as Rudolf Hess.

He waited until Pru was driving before trying to explain.

‘I knew it was stupid of me.’ All he could tell her was the truth. ‘I just panicked. I thought Arthur was dying. I was desperate.’

The Jaguar was bliss to drive after the temperamental Mini; the gears were heaven on a shift-stick. Marvelling at the metronomic sweep of the windscreen wipers – no hiccups, no judders, none of those awful screeching bird-of-prey noises her own wipers liked to make – Pru flicked a sidelong glance at Eddie.

‘You could have phoned for a taxi.’

Wearily he shook his head.

‘Last time I did that, the bloody thing took forty minutes to turn up.’

‘What about a friend? Don’t you have any of those, to call on in an emergency?’

Since moving down from Manchester to Bath four months earlier, Eddie had discovered at first hand that all the guff about northerners being friendlier than southerners was true.

‘Plenty, thanks.’ He heard his voice sharpening but couldn’t help it. ‘I have plenty of friends.. In Manchester. How silly of me, I suppose I should have given them a ring.’

‘It was silly of you to drive.’ Pru remained calm. ‘You could have killed someone. You could,’

she pointed out, ‘have killed me.’

Eddie was beginning to wish he had. His eyes felt gritty and his head ached. He gave up.

‘So what are you going to do, call the police and turn me in?’

Pru indicated left as she turned into the entrance of Brunton Manor. He looked so crushed she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.

Her voice softened. ‘Is that what you think? Actually I wasn’t planning to.’

‘Oh.’

‘Look, phone a garage. Get my car towed away and fixed.’ Pru parked the Jag neatly by the side entrance to the club but kept the engine running. ‘Am I insured to drive this one?’

Bit late to ask now, thought Eddie, but he nodded.

‘It’s covered for any driver.’

Except banned ones.

‘Okay.’ Briskly Pru checked her watch; she was already late for work. ‘So if it’s all right with you, I’ll borrow this car until mine’s ready.’

Eddie panicked. He felt like a smoker having his cigarettes confiscated.

‘But I might—’

‘Might what?’ Pru’s delicate eyebrows lifted. ‘Need it? Oh no, you won’t need it, Eddie. You’re banned.’

Chapter 13

By the time Pru arrived back at the scene of the crash, someone else had got there before her.

The Mini was still lying on its side in the ditch but the five bulging black bin liners she had piled on to the back seat were gone.

This was a major blow; Pru’s landlord didn’t know it yet, but paying the rent depended rather heavily on the contents of those bags.

Pru, who had astonished herself this morning – she’d never been that bold and assertive with anyone in her life – now felt her eyes begin to prickle with distinctly unassertive tears. All her good clothes, fifteen years’ worth, had been stolen. It had taken her hours to wash, press and check everything, making sure no buttons were missing, no hems coming undone. The woman who ran the designer as-new shop in Carlton Street, the Changing Room, had been keen to take as many of Pru’s outfits, with their impressive labels, as she wanted to be rid of.

Pru didn’t want to be rid of any of them but it was fast becoming a question of selling either her clothes or her body, and she couldn’t imagine anyone being interested just now in her scrawny frame. Selling the clothes, on the other hand, would give her enough for six months’ rent.

Pru stared at the Mini’s empty back seat and hanging-open doors and wondered who could have nicked them. Had a smartly dressed young businesswoman spotted the car on her way to work, stopped to make sure nobody was lying hurt, and taken a peek inside one of the bags? Maybe she’d pulled out the navy-blue Escada suit, held it up against herself and thought, ‘Size 10, what a stroke of luck, let’s see what else we’ve got here ...’ Then, clearly liking what she found, had she stowed the five bin bags in the boot of her own sporty little car and zoomed off to work, happy in the knowledge that that was her spring wardrobe sorted out?

Or had a gang of school kids found the bags, torn them open and dumped her clothes in the nearest pond in disgust?

‘Don’t fret about it,’ Marion Hayes declared when Pru finally turned up at Beech Farm. Arriving two hours late, and in a posh car, meant Marion’s curiosity was aroused. Before she started work, Pru was forced to sit down, eat Hob Nobs, drink tea and tell all.

‘That’s his problem, not yours.’ Marion dismissed Pru’s worries with an airy flick of the hand.

‘Just give him an estimate stating how much the stuff was worth. He’ll send it on to his insurance people. They’ll pay up.’

Pru nodded and tried to look suitably relieved. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell Marion the whole story — about Eddie Hammond being banned and therefore uninsured — not out of any sense of loyalty, but because some things were simply safer left unsaid. She didn’t fancy being arrested and slung into prison for aiding and abetting a criminal.

She couldn’t help wondering, either, just how suspicious Eddie was going to be when she suddenly presented him with a hefty additional bill for stolen frocks.

I mean, how likely did it sound, Pru thought gloomily, thousands of pounds’ worth of designer labels being nicked from the back of a clapped-out Mini? She used to buy shoes that cost more than that car.

‘Well, at least you weren’t hurt,’ said Marion, draining her tea and standing up as the clock in the hall struck nine. ‘Time I was out of here. The cows’ll be wondering when they’re going to get fed. I’ll leave you in peace.’

* * *

When Pru had finished washing up the breakfast things she scrubbed the kitchen floor. While that was drying she vacuumed through downstairs. Next she cleaned the drawing room windows.