guy Bellamy?’
‘My money’s on that daft bananas outfit,’ said Derek Hitchin.
‘I don’t know anything about a bananas outfit,’ protested Auriole Allen.
‘Yes, you do,’ insisted the project manager. ‘They call themselves the Berebury Preservation Society.’
‘I still don’t get it, Derek,’ said the public relations woman. ‘What’ve they got to do with bananas? Or are you saying they’re just plain barmy?’
He spelt it out for her. ‘ “Build Absolutely Nothing Anywhere Near Anyone”. Bananas. Got it now, Auriole?’
Her face cleared and she nodded. ‘I see.’
‘And their Jonathon Ayling’s quite up to a diversionary tactic like this,’ said the project manager.
‘Remember how he tried to save that old forge in Cullingoak?’ said Selby. ‘By getting a pal of his in the rubber trade to make the biggest balloon in the world. Then they fixed it to the end of the bellows.’
‘And when they’d done that,’ contributed Mansfield, ‘they blew it up to show their message writ large.’
‘Something rude?’ hazarded Auriole.
‘Very,’ said Mansfield shortly.
‘I’ll say,’ muttered Hitchin. ‘About the conservation officer who wouldn’t put a preservation order on it and the planning officer who let them build flats where the old forge had been.’
‘Melanie Smithers and your old friend Jeremy Stratton?’ hazarded Selby.
‘How did you guess?’ drawled Hitchin, unabashed.
The senior staff of Berebury Homes Ltd were not the only people considering the possible activities of Jonathon Ayling in connection with the mysterious fire at Tolmie Park. The members of the Berebury Preservation Society, too, were making quite sure that their backs were covered.
‘Not me, guv,’ said that young man to the hastily assembled committee of the Society, giving them his usual charming smile. ‘Honest.’
‘I must say that setting the building alight didn’t seem the action of a dedicated preservationist,’ said Paul Pullman austerely. In spite of being married to Wendy he still valued logical analysis of all situations.
‘Whatever anyone says,’ pronounced someone else with apparent irrelevance, ‘there are always wheels within wheels.’
Jonathon Ayling said in his customary engaging manner, ‘In the vernacular all I can say is “I never”.’
‘Then who did?’ demanded Wendy Pullman.
‘Ah, now you’re asking,’ he said turning his frank gaze on her. ‘And that I can’t tell you because I don’t know.’
‘Honest, Jonathon?’ Had she but known it, Wendy would have made a good nursery school teacher. ‘You’re not leading us on, are you?’
‘Cross my heart, Wendy, and hope to die. All I know is that it wasn’t me.’
Paul Pullman asked sternly ‘Or anyone you know?’
Jonathon Ayling shook his head. ‘My mates are always willing to help the cause, naturally, but I don’t think they’d have set a place on fire without being asked.’
‘That means,’ concluded Paul Pullman ineluctably, ‘that they would have done it if you had.’
‘Sure,’ the young man said easily. ‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’
‘Well, then, Jonathon,’ temporised Wendy, ‘we’ll just have to take your word for it, won’t we?’
He gave her the sweetest of smiles. ‘That’s right, Wendy.’He looked round at the assembled company and said, ‘That’s if you all still want me on board.’
‘Of course we do,’ said someone at the back. ‘We’d never have saved the Larking windmill without you.’
‘And without our back-up campaign, too,’ put in Wendy a little indignantly. ‘Don’t forget that. We wrote all the letters, remember…’
‘But it was Jonathon perching on the cap on the top of the windmill that got the television people interested,’ persisted the woman at the back.
‘I don’t think we should be fighting old battles…’ began Paul Pullman, who thought of himself as the voice of reason.
‘Did the trick, though,
‘My money’s on that daft bananas outfit,’ said Derek Hitchin.
‘I don’t know anything about a bananas outfit,’ protested Auriole Allen.
‘Yes, you do,’ insisted the project manager. ‘They call themselves the Berebury Preservation Society.’
‘I still don’t get it, Derek,’ said the public relations woman. ‘What’ve they got to do with bananas? Or are you saying they’re just plain barmy?’
He spelt it out for her. ‘ “Build Absolutely Nothing Anywhere Near Anyone”. Bananas. Got it now, Auriole?’
Her face cleared and she nodded. ‘I see.’
‘And their Jonathon Ayling’s quite up to a diversionary tactic like this,’ said the project manager.
‘Remember how he tried to save that old forge in Cullingoak?’ said Selby. ‘By getting a pal of his in the rubber trade to make the biggest balloon in the world. Then they fixed it to the end of the bellows.’
‘And when they’d done that,’ contributed Mansfield, ‘they blew it up to show their message writ large.’
‘Something rude?’ hazarded Auriole.
‘Very,’ said Mansfield shortly.
‘I’ll say,’ muttered Hitchin. ‘About the conservation officer who wouldn’t put a preservation order on it and the planning officer who let them build flats where the old forge had been.’
‘Melanie Smithers and your old friend Jeremy Stratton?’ hazarded Selby.
‘How did you guess?’ drawled Hitchin, unabashed.
The senior staff of Berebury Homes Ltd were not the only people considering the possible activities of Jonathon Ayling in connection with the mysterious fire at Tolmie Park. The members of the Berebury Preservation Society, too, were making quite sure that their backs were covered.
‘Not me, guv,’ said that young man to the hastily assembled committee of the Society, giving them his usual charming smile. ‘Honest.’
‘I must say that setting the building alight didn’t seem the action of a dedicated preservationist,’ said Paul Pullman austerely. In spite of being married to Wendy he still valued logical analysis of all situations.
‘Whatever anyone says,’ pronounced someone else with apparent irrelevance, ‘there are always wheels within wheels.’
Jonathon Ayling said in his customary engaging manner, ‘In the vernacular all I can say is “I never”.’
‘Then who did?’ demanded Wendy Pullman.
‘Ah, now you’re asking,’ he said turning his frank gaze on her. ‘And that I can’t tell you because I don’t know.’
‘Honest, Jonathon?’ Had she but known it, Wendy would have made a good nursery school teacher. ‘You’re not leading us on, are you?’
‘Cross my heart, Wendy, and hope to die. All I know is that it wasn’t me.’
Paul Pullman asked sternly ‘Or anyone you know?’
Jonathon Ayling shook his head. ‘My mates are always willing to help the cause, naturally, but I don’t think they’d have set a place on fire without being asked.’
‘That means,’ concluded Paul Pullman ineluctably, ‘that they would have done it if you had.’
‘Sure,’ the young man said easily. ‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’
‘Well, then, Jonathon,’ temporised Wendy, ‘we’ll just have to take your word for it, won’t we?’
He gave her the sweetest of smiles. ‘That’s right, Wendy.’He looked round at the assembled company and said, ‘That’s if you all still want me on board.’
‘Of course we do,’ said someone at the back. ‘We’d never have saved the Larking windmill without you.’
‘And without our back-up campaign, too,’ put in Wendy a little indignantly. ‘Don’t forget that. We wrote all the letters, remember…’
‘But it was Jonathon perching on the cap on the top of the windmill that got the television people interested,’ persisted the woman at the back.
‘I don’t think we should be fighting old battles…’ began Paul Pullman, who thought of himself as the voice of reason.
‘Did the trick, though,
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