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vicarage. The main entrance to the road was indeed at the far end, and it seemed to be from there that the houses were numbered.
    They walked the length of the terrace, noting the individual touches that distinguished almost identical houses. Some front doors were glazed, some painted in bright colours. One garden had been paved over, with a terracotta pot in pride of place. Others displayed varying degrees of care, some of the grass being in need of a cut.
    Number two, almost at the end, had a solid wooden door and its garden was simply lawn, with no flowerbeds. Rona’s knock was answered at once, by a woman about her age with dark, straight hair and a sweet smile. She held out her hand.
    â€˜Mr and Mrs Parish?’ she said. ‘I’m Nuala Banks. Do come—’ She broke off as she caught sight of Gus. ‘Oh, I’m sorry – would you mind leaving him outside? Unfortunately my son’s allergic to dogs. Perhaps you could tie his lead to the gate?’
    â€˜Of course.’ Max did so, but Rona felt a shaft of disappointment; it seemed she wouldn’t have Gus’s company during her visits to Buckford.
    They found themselves in a narrow hallway, with stairs rising in front of them. There were a couple of doors on the right and one on the left, while beyond the stairs the passage continued to what was presumably the kitchen. Nuala Banks opened the left-hand door and showed them into a long room that extended the depth of the house. The far end doubled as a dining room, and through the French windows they could see a garden with a swing and climbing frame.
    â€˜Please sit down.’ As they did so, she turned to Rona. ‘Mr Breen said you’d be coming for a couple of nights a week?’ she began hesitantly.
    â€˜Yes, just for a month in the first instance. I don’t know if he told you, but I’m a journalist, and I’m planning to write some articles about Buckford. Since we live in Marsborough, it seems sensible to spend some days up here while I’m doing my initial research. And I should explain that Rona Parish is my professional name, which, admittedly, I use most of the time, though officially I suppose I’m Mrs Allerdyce.’
    Nuala Banks nodded. ‘I think I’ve heard of you,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’ve read something of yours?’
    Rona avoided Max’s eye, knowing he disliked the publicity which, earlier in the year, had catapulted her into the headlines. She said obliquely, ‘I write for
Chiltern Life
.’
    â€˜Then I must have seen it at the dentist. But I owe you an explanation, too: you’ll be my first paying guest, so this is by way of an experiment.’ Her eyes dropped. ‘My husband left me three years ago, and things have been a bit straitened lately. When you said you were looking for somewhere, Mr Breen kindly thought it might help.’
    Nuala Banks had been more honest in her explanation than she had, Rona thought ruefully. ‘I’m so sorry. You have a little boy, you said?’
    â€˜Yes, Will. He’s ten. My father lives with us, too. Since his accident, he can’t go upstairs, so he has the room across the hall as a bedsitter. That’s why, though we have only three bedrooms upstairs, there’s one spare. Perhaps you’d like to see it?’
    They followed her up the steep staircase to the first floor, where she opened the door to one of the front rooms.
    â€˜It’s a bit basic,’ Nuala said apologetically. ‘All Dad’s furniture moved downstairs with him. Still, the washbasin’s handy. We have only the one bathroom, I’m afraid, though there’s a loo and shower room downstairs.’
    â€˜It looks very comfortable,’ Rona said. The room was large and square, with a double bed under an old-fashioned candlewick spread. The only other items of furniture were a wardrobe, a dressing-table with a frilled valance, and an armchair. She