The briars and brambles in the hedge reached out thorny fingers towards the shining coachwork of the police Rover. ‘Must ’ve planned this road as a tight fit for a couple of cavemen dragging their birds home to the bridal suite. What they’re going to say back at the garage I don’t care to think!’ The little Welshman loosened his tie, took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘Hate to think what ’d happen if they had a fire in Bullensthorpe, and the fire engine had to get through.’ ‘Not to worry,’ Jurnet returned comfortably, glad to be away, if only temporarily, from the stateliness of stately homes. ‘Doubt if the natives have learnt yet how to rub two sticks together.’ The village, the detective was pleased to note when at last, having negotiated a hump-backed bridge over a stream whose banks were bright with kingcups, they drew up by a small green, was pretty, but not demandingly so: a pleasant medley of houses, from Tudor brick to plastic clapboard, none of them beautiful enough or ugly enough to upset the sensible balance of the place.
