Read The Camelot Caper for Free Online Page B

to London and be glad of themoney. Tell him you’re a friend of mine and he’ll not dare to overcharge you. D’you need money?”
    She had her pocketbook open before Jess could reply, and the girl felt her eyes fill with tears as she caught the plump hand.
    â€œYou’re being so kind,” she muttered. “And I’m a stranger…”
    â€œNonsense,” said Mrs. Hodge calmly. “There are only two sorts of people in the world, right ones and wrong ones. I can tell the right from the wrong, at my age. Now. Do you need money?”
    â€œI don’t have much English money,” Jess admitted. “I had planned to cash a traveler’s check at the hotel.”
    â€œTraveler’s check?” Mr. Woodle came reeling down the aisle and took the seat in front. “I can cash one for you if you like. Give you a good rate of exchange.”
    â€œShame on you,” Mrs. Hodge began indignantly.
    â€œNo, please—I’d be very grateful. I have plenty of money, really, but perhaps—what’s his name? Harry?—would rather have cash than a check, and on Sunday—”
    â€œQuite right,” said Mr. Woodle briskly. “Ten or twelve pounds should see you through. Nowthe exchange rate as of yesterday morning…”
    According to plan, it was dusk when the bus wheezed to a stop in the village of St. Mary’s Underhill. It was the smallest village Jess had yet seen, which was saying a good deal, and she regarded its tiny huddle of buildings with dismay. Half a dozen cottages, hugging the ground…. Neurotic houses, lonely and dark in the twilight. Only one of the buildings had any lights, the building in front of which they had stopped; but the light filtered, meager and unwelcoming, through closely curtained windows. A sign swung above the door, but it was too dark for Jess to read it.
    â€œThe Blue Boar,” Sam announced, swinging Jess’s bag down with a gesture which, in a southern European, might have been a flourish. “Let me give you a hand, love.”
    Her suitcase beside her, Jess turned to survey her friends and fellow conspirators, all of whom were now at the windows on her side, grinning and waving encouragement. Mrs. Hodge stood in the doorway of the bus. Her mouth was grave, though her eyes still twinkled with reminiscent enjoyment.
    â€œSend us a postal card, child, will you? Mrs. Hodge, Westbury, that’s all the address you’ll need.”
    â€œI’ll telephone,” Jess promised; no extravagance seemed quite good enough. “Thank you—all of you…”
    â€œYou’ll be all right now,” Mrs. Hodge said firmly.
    â€œCome along now, Mrs. Hodge.” Sam pushed her back up the stairs and mounted them himself. “We don’t want to linger here, in case they should pick up our trail.”
    As the bus lumbered off, Jess saw Mrs. Hodge’s round face at the back window. One of her hands was raised in a sign Jess knew only from books and movies; with a queer contraction of the heart, she realized that Mrs. Hodge had lived with that victory sign and the years of disaster it had valiantly denied. Then Sam turned off the interior lights and the bus became a dark shadow which might have been some smelly prehistoric beast retreating into the night.
    Jess turned to contemplate the doorway of the Blue Boar, and took an instant dislike to the place. It was probably snug and sheltered inside; from the outside it gave precisely the opposite impression. Lifting her eyes for a last look at the village, she saw a huge square darkness outlined against the luminous sky. St. Mary’s itself, no doubt; the tower of the churchfrom which the village took its name. But what a tower for a cluster of six cottages and a pub! It should have been a symbol of comfort, but the towering bulk loomed like a curtain designed to cut off the friendly stars. With a shiver Jess picked up her suitcase, squared