No More Dying Then

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The spell of fine weather which so often occurs in the middle of October is known as St. Luke’s Little Summer. The “little summer” part needs no explanation; the St. Luke bit derives from its coincidence with the eighteenth, which is that saint’s day. Basking in the warm autumn sunlight, Station Sergeant Camb delivered this piece of interesting but useless information to Harry Wild and smiled sententiously.

   “Is that so? Maybe I’ll do a diary note on it.” Wild sucked at his smelly old pipe and rested leather- patched elbows on the counter top. He yawned. ‘Haven’t you got anything more exciting for me?”

   Camb caught the yawn and yawned himself. He remarked for the third time on the closeness of the weather and then he opened his book.

   “Two vehicles in collision at the junction of Kingsmarkham High Street and Queen Street,” he read. “Nobody hurt. That was Sunday, Nothing in that for the Courier, is there? Girl of seventeen missing, but we know where she is all right. Oh, and there’s a baboon got lost from the pet shop . . .” Wild looked up, lazily enquiring. “. . . Only they found it up on their balcony, tucking in to the waste bin.”

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