The Runaways by Victor Canning

minutes later he heard a soft shuffling noise inside. The door was opened. Standing before him was a very tall, very large woman of about forty. She had a big, squarish, red face and an untidy mop of short black hair. She wore a green sweater tucked into the top of riding breeches. On her feet were long, thick, red woollen stockings one of which had a hole in it through which part of a big toe showed. She was holding a leg of cold chicken in her hand. As she chewed on a mouthful she surveyed Smiler as though he were something that the dog had brought home. She finished her chewing and then said brusquely, ‘Well, boy?’
    Smiler, not sure of his ground, pulled the newspaper from his pocket and said, ‘Please, Ma’am, I’ve come about the job.’
    She eyed him for a moment, then looked at the chicken bone, which was now gnawed clean, and tossed it away out to the lawn over his head.
    â€˜Oh, you have, have you? Well, let’s have a look at you. Turn round.’ Her voice was brisk, but not unkind, and there was a small twinkle in her dark eyes.
    Smiler obediently turned round, facing the lawn. A small Jack Russell terrier came out of the beech coppice, trotted across the grass, picked up the chicken leg and went back into the trees with it. Somewhere at the back of the house what seemed like a pack of a hundred dogs all began to bark and howl together.
    From behind him the woman – who was Mrs Angela Lakey – said briskly, ‘Right. Nothing wrong with rear view. Turn round.’
    Obediently Smiler turned about. Mrs Lakey reached out and took the top of his right arm in a firm grasp and felt his muscles.
    â€˜Strong boy wanted,’ she said. ‘How strong are you, boy?’
    â€˜I’m strong enough, I think, Ma’am.’
    â€˜Time will show.’ Mrs Lakey bent forward a little, peered at his face and said, ‘ You’re very sunburnt for this time of the year, aren’t you?’
    Smiler said quickly, ‘My skin’s always like that, Ma’am.’
    â€˜Don’t call me Ma’am – call me Mrs Lakey. What I’ll call you from time to time – if you get the job – is nobody’s business. All right, come in and let’s have your particulars.’ She turned away down the hall. As Smiler followed, she called over her shoulder, ‘Shut the door. Fresh air’s for outside houses, not inside.’
    She led the way down the hall and into a side room. It was a large, bright room, very lofty, and looked out over the lawn. And it was like no room Smiler had ever seen before. Around the walls were hung fox masks and brushes, glass cases with stuffed fish and birds in them, and a thick patchwork of framed photographs of horses and dogs. Over the big open fireplace, in which burnt a pile of great three-foot length logs, was a large oil painting of a fresh-faced, grey-haired man dressed in white breeches and hunting pink. He sat in a highbacked chair and held a riding crop in one hand and a large full brandy glass in the other. (Later, Smiler learnt that this was Mrs Lakey’s dead father who had been a Colonel of the Hussars.) Before the fire, between two shabby leather armchairs, was a round table which held a tray of cold food and a full glass with a thick white froth on it which Smiler – because of his father – immediately recognized as a glass of stout. On the back wall of the room were rows of rod-rests with fishing rods stretched across them. Below these was a long low book-case full of volumes packed into it in an untidy jumble. There was a large rolltop desk just inside the door, open, and crammed to bursting with papers and all sorts of odds and ends, including a very old typewriter.
    Mrs Lakey told Smiler to sit by the fire. She went to the desk, rummaged in it, and found a pencil and a piece of very creased paper and came back and sat down opposite him.
    She put the paper and pencil on the table, took a