The Judgement of Strangers. Andrew Taylor

drive. It felt like a retreat. I didn’t like the idea that I might be running away from something. Then I heard music.

      I stopped to listen. It was faint enough to make it difficult to hear. Some sort of pop music, I thought; and suddenly I guessed where the Cliffords were. It was a fine morning, their first in their new home. They were probably in the garden.

      I was familiar with the layout of the place from my years of visiting the Bramleys and their patients. I followed a path that led through the shrubbery at the side of the house to the croquet lawn below the terrace on the east front. The lawn was now a mass of knee-high grass and weeds. On the terrace, some four feet above it, were two people in deckchairs, with a small, blue transistor radio between them. A male voice was croaking against a background of discordant, rhythmic music. I walked on to the lawn and raised my Panama hat.

      ‘Good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you. My name is David Byfield.’

      Two faces, blank as masks, turned towards me; astonishment wipes away much of a person’s outward individuality. If the Demon King had appeared before them in a puff of smoke, the effect would have been much the same.

      The moment of astonishment dissolved. A young man switched off the radio and stood up. He was skinny, his figure emphasized by the fitted denim shirt and the hip-hugging bell-bottomed jeans. He had a beaky nose and bright, pale-blue eyes. His hair was thick and fair, with more than a hint of ginger, and it curled down to his shoulders. A hippy, I thought, or the next best thing. But I had to admit that the long hair suited him.

      ‘Good morning. What can we do for you?’

      I took a step forward. ‘First, I’d like to welcome you to Roth. I’m the vicar.’

      The man dropped the cigarette he was holding into the bush of lavender which sprawled out of an urn at the edge of the terrace. ‘The church at the gates?’ He came down the steps to the lawn and held out his hand. ‘I’m Toby Clifford. How do you do?’

      We shook hands. I realized that he was a little older than I had thought at first – perhaps in his middle or late twenties.

      ‘This is my sister Joanna.’ Toby turned back to her. ‘Jo, come and say hello to the vicar.’

      I looked up at the terrace. There was a flurry of limbs in the other deckchair. A young woman stood up. She wore a baggy T-shirt which came halfway down her thighs and – I could hardly help noticing as she scrambled out of the deckchair – green knickers. Short hair framed a triangular face.

      ‘The vicar,’ she said and giggled. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t laugh. Not funny.’

      I held out my hand. ‘It’s the dog collar. It often has that effect on people.’

      Her eyes widened with surprise. I guessed she was a year or two younger than her brother.

      ‘Would you like some coffee?’ Toby said. ‘We were just going to make some.’