Ian Sansom - Death in Devon

‘Quite,’ I said.

‘Good enough to eat!’ pronounced Woland, eating his spoonful of creamy flan.

Miriam called across the table; she had been taking a quiet interest in our conversation.

‘You do know Mr Sefton was a schoolmaster himself for a long time. Isn’t that right, Sefton?’

‘No?’ said the German, his mouth half full. ‘But you should have said! You know exactly what I am talking about.’

‘Well, perhaps not quite—’ I began.

‘And then he went to fight in Spain,’ said Miriam. Unfortunately, this announcement coincided with a sudden lull in the table’s conversation.

‘Spain?’ said Alex.

‘See any action?’ asked Jon Jones the Welshman.

‘A little,’ I said, which was the answer I gave to anyone who asked such a stupid and offensive question.

‘Perhaps you’d be prepared to instruct the boys in a little rifle shooting?’ said Jon Jones. ‘We have an excellent little cadet corps here.’

‘No, thank you,’ I said.

‘Signalling, perhaps?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Ah, that’s such a shame. We took some of them to a camp at Aldershot last year. Do you remember, Bernhard?’

‘I do, Jon, yes.’

‘Yes, a great success,’ said Alex. ‘Great success.’

Our conversation, unfortunately, was now the conversation of the table.

‘Perhaps we could persuade you to assist the boys with some PT?’ said Dr Standish, from the top of the table. ‘Alex is on a mission to get our boys fit, aren’t you, Alex?’

‘I am indeed, Headmaster.’

‘We were all rather shamed, I think, by our dismal showing at the Olympic Games. Can’t let the Germans take over, can we – with apologies, Mr Bernhard.’

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