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ready with an opinion on anything ‘cultural’ – in the older and proper sense of that word, as he was wont to assure anyone who would listen. Preston could be tiresome, but he had contacts, and a little judicious flattery would easily persuade him to use them. Flattery wasn’t a weapon Marjorie Dooks cared to employ, but she recognized that Peter Preston might well have his uses when you were trying to set up a worthwhile literary festival with little know-how and very limited funds.
    He paused, looked round the table, apparently satisfied himself that he had everyone’s attention, and announced, ‘Denzil Carter thinks he can fit us into his schedule. In the light of the derisory fees we are able to offer even the most eminent of our speakers, I had to call in a personal favour to get him, but I think he will come. I should be able to confirm this after further contacts in the coming week.’
    â€˜Thank you, Mr Preston. As I am sure you will remember from the minutes of our meeting on February fourth, our fees are no longer a matter for discussion. We all understand that we are working to a tight budget, but the acceptances we already have are beginning to shape into a promising programme. Ms Charles?’
    Whilst Preston bristled in silence, the woman on his left nodded and looked at her notes. ‘Please call me Sue. I’m not used to the formality of meetings, but I think we’ll make more rapid progress if we speak frankly and informally.’ She glanced round the table and found two or three heads nodding agreement and support.
    Sue Charles was sixty-eight now, and unconsciously asserting the deference due to age and seniority in a gathering like this. She had written twenty crime novels, lived in the town for thirty years, and was a respected local figure. She carried her celebrity lightly and wasn’t ostentatious with her money, her neighbours said approvingly. Not many of them realized how modest the returns from writing were for all but the fortunate few. Sue had helped to found the literary festival, recognizing correctly that many authors would attend for modest fees. Some of them had an evangelical streak and were eager to spread the word about their particular kind of literature; others were natural mixers and speakers who welcomed an audience as a variant to the lonely process of writing. All were anxious to publicize and talk about their latest masterworks.
    Sue Charles was more conscious of the realities of the literary life than anyone else in the room. She had spoken at the first Oldford Literary Festival herself and been well received. Now she was using her acquaintance – she modestly declined the word friendship – with one of the most eminent and well-known crime writers to persuade him to speak at this year’s event. ‘David Knight has agreed to come in May. My only reservation is that I know he is not in good health. But I will pick him up from the station and he will stay with me. He can now be included in our programme. I should be delighted to chair that session and to introduce him myself.’
    Marjorie Dooks nodded. ‘That is good news indeed, Sue. Thank you for your continuing efforts on our behalf.’
    From the other side of the table Peter Preston offered his most patronizing smile. ‘Whilst in no way wishing to denigrate the efforts of Ms Charles – or indeed her own literary productions – I think I should query once again whether we wish to include detective fiction and its practitioners within our programme. I don’t wish to appear a snob, but are we not affecting the prestige of our little cultural celebration by including the whodunit among more serious novels?’
    â€˜What would you call yourself, if not a snob, then?’
    The question burst abruptly and shockingly from the youngest person in the room, twenty-two-year-old Sam Hilton. Preston allowed himself a shake of the head and a supercilious