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two drawbacks to this plan. One was that Miss Grey was younger than Vincent had been expecting – probably around twenty-six or seven – and he did not want those
admiring looks to turn into sniggers about ageing gentlemen making fools of themselves with young girls. He was, in fact, ageing gracefully – he fancied he was becoming quite distinguished of
late and these days he dressed rather jauntily which helped – and the idea that he might make a fool of himself with any young girl was ridiculous. Still, people could be unkind and
jealous.
    The other drawback to inviting Miss Grey to dinner was the presence of the television people who were at the King’s Head looking into the possibility of a programme about the area. People
had said it was to be about unusual buildings in England’s north-west and quirky pockets of Britain’s countryside, and hearing this, Vincent had at once realized his own local knowledge
might be very useful. He had assembled some details about Calvary – nothing dangerous, nothing that might draw them to that part of Calvary’s history Vincent needed to keep hidden.
Facts such as how it had been built in the 1790s, originally as a place to hold prisoners before trial or awaiting execution, but how, after an Act of Parliament in the mid-1800s, the distinction
between Gaol and House of Correction had been abolished, and Calvary had consequently housed quite a lot of men serving life sentences. And little bits of local gossip and legend, so it was not too
dry. Such as how the old turnkey’s room was reputed to be haunted by a Victorian gaoler who had operated the old Newgate system of forcing prisoners to pay for quite basic services.
    It had turned out to be rather a snappy little piece, but then he had always had a knack with words. Mother often used to say so. ‘I don’t know why you don’t do something with
your writing, Vincent,’ she would say. ‘All those compositions you did at school.’
    It would be very gratifying if the TV people used his article, although he would insist on a proper credit. “Our thanks are due to Vincent N. Meade who gave so generously of his time and
knowledge during the making of this programme.” Something on those lines would look well.
    He had given the article to the female assistant – Drusilla somebody she was called – and she had said they would be extremely interested in reading it, and yes, certainly he should
give her his phone number so they could contact him. Vincent thought they would have studied it properly by now, which meant they might be looking to talk to him. So he would go along to the
King’s Head later, but he would go alone so as to be free if they wanted him. His appearance in the bar would not be thought strange: he sometimes looked in for a glass of sherry of an
evening. He rather thought they kept the sherry especially for him and he visualized the barman saying to the landlord, ‘Goodness me, we must order another bottle or two of Mr Meade’s
sherry this week: it won’t do to run out of that.’
    In any case, Miss Grey – Georgina – had indicated that she wanted to spend the evening on her own. Probably she was tired after the long drive; ladies never had as much stamina as
men. Vincent’s mother often used to say so. ‘Poor fragile creatures that we are,’ she would say, lying back in her chair, smiling as everyone ran around waiting on her. Vincent
had been one of the people who had waited on her most often, but he had never minded.
    Girls today were nothing like Vincent’s mother. They were brisk and efficient like Georgina Grey seemed to be, and they were casual about long drives to unfamiliar places and about dining
with strange men. Vincent’s mother, if she was alive, would not have cared for that – not ladylike, she would have said – and she would not have approved of Georgina. One of these
flippant modern girls, she would have called her. Hard. And what is it she does for a living?