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glasses beside the school-teachers.
    â€œI’m sorry.” Bright pink now, Dick Harvey shook his head. He glanced round the room at the curious faces. “I really do apologise. I didn’t mean to be so irritating, but on reflection I—”
    â€œRelax, Dick,” Clive said easily, “no one’s twisting your arm.”
    General conversation resumed, and I found Morgan Rees beside me. “Are you beginning to sort us all out? It can be a bit daunting, I know.”
    I looked up at him. “I hadn’t realised the gentleman over there was American. Is he with the school-mistresses?”
    â€œNo, his wife’s in the corner there – the lady with the blue rinse. Mr and Mrs Zimmerman, from Chicago.”
    I glanced at the elderly lady chatting to the young couple who’d been playing tennis on my arrival.
    â€œIsn’t this rather off the beaten track for them?”
    He shrugged. “They seem to be enjoying themselves, going on daily trips to places of interest. They’re here for a few more days, then going on to ‘do’ Scotland.”
    â€œAnd the young couple?”
    â€œOh, they’re our honeymooners. Rather endearing really, no eyes for anyone else. Andrew and Cindy Dacombe. Call her ‘Mrs Dacombe’ and watch her blush!”
    â€œI wouldn’t be so unkind!” I glanced again at the girl. Her corn-gold hair was caught youthfully back in a ponytail and her short skirt revealed a pair of long, slender brown legs.
    Her husband, who didn’t seem much older, was snub-nosed, with red-brown hair that he’d obviously attempted to smooth down, but which nevertheless stood up in unruly spikes. I noticed that their hands were unobtrusively linked between their chairs.
    Morgan said, “Anyone else I can fill you in on?”
    â€œThe old ladies?” They were sitting side by side on a sofa knitting industriously, both small and plump, with soft white hair twisted into buns at the backs of their heads. Alike as two peas, I thought. Even their clothes were identical.
    â€œThe Misses Jones – Olwen and Hettie. They keep pretty much to themselves.”
    I looked round the room. “And of course, the school-teachers.”
    â€œIndeed. Norton and Bunting by name. Norton’s all right, in a jolly-hockey-sticks sort of way, but Bunting looks as though she might die of fright if anyone said ‘Boo!’ to her.”
    â€œAnd this is the full complement of the hotel?”
    â€œApart from the Mortimer brats. There’s one vacant room, but I believe it’s booked. I heard Wynne Davies say the chap can’t get here till tomorrow.”
    â€˜Aladdin’ again?
    â€œAnd what about you, Morgan?” I asked, turning to him with a quick smile. “You’ve given me thumbnail sketches of everyone else – what do you do?”
    â€œI’m a writer for my pains, strictly non-fiction. At the moment, I’m working on a biography of Owen P. Thomas.” He glanced at me and laughed. “Go on, admit it – you’ve never heard of him!”
    â€œShould I have done?”
    â€œNot really; he was a Welsh politician during the last century.”
    â€œWhy does he interest you?” I asked curiously, but before he could reply, Mr Zimmerman’s voice reached us from across the room.
    â€œWell, I admire you, Dick, I truly do. If you
have
struck gold, you sure deserve it, after all the slogging you’ve been doing, year in, year out.”
    â€œAnd so say all of us,” Miss Norton confirmed. “You’ve earned your Aladdin’s cave, Mr Harvey.”
    I jerked involuntarily and the coffee spoon rattled in the saucer I still held. Morgan took it from me and laid it down on the table.
    Could the school-mistresses be responsible for the notes, I wondered incredulously, taking a leaf from children in their class?
    No, that wouldn’t work; it didn’t take account of