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menus so it would be very complicated.”
    I said on impulse, “I could do the lunches till she’s better, if it would help.”
    Hugo looked up. “Now that is a thought! Do you think you could cope?”
    â€œI don’t see why not. I’m used to cooking for fairly large numbers, and I’ve nothing else to do.”
    â€œBully for you! I’ll ring through after dinner and pass on the suggestion.”
    The college accepted my offer with gratitude as, when in turn I phoned her, did Annette St Cyr.
    â€œThis is the first time we’ve let St Olaf’s down,” she told me, “and I’ve been so worried it might lose us the contract. They must be able to depend on their caterers. That’s the trouble with there being only two of us – when we’re both ill we’re completely stuck. We’ve had to cancel restaurant bookings till the end of the week, which is something we can’t really afford.”
    â€œDon’t worry about the lunches, anyway. If you tell me what you were planning and where I can find it, I’ll do the rest.”
    â€œIt should be Spaghetti Bolognese tomorrow, with ice-cream to follow. The sauce only needs thawing and reheating. The main problem is getting it to you.”
    â€œI’ll come and collect it, if there’s somewhere you can leave it.”
    â€œWould you mind? We could put the containers in the passage just inside the back door and leave it on the latch. We’ll keep out of the way though – I don’t want to pass this on to you! There’s a large selection of pans at college, so don’t worry about utensils. You know the kitchenette off the staff-room? It has a cooker, fridge, sink and so on. They use it to make tea and coffee during the day. The washing-up isn’t your concern, of course. Two girls come in to serve the meal and clear and wash up afterwards. Once the dessert is portioned out you’re free to go.”
    I was quite pleased at the prospect of cooking again, having enjoyed the challenge of the Poularde, and it was only as I was dropping off to sleep that I realized I should in fact, as Ray had assured me, be at college the following day.

Six
    The Viking Restaurant was a converted coach-house on the Jurby road and Annette’s clear directions led me to it without any trouble. The sign of a helmeted warrior with flowing hair dispelled any possible doubt that I had reached my destination. As arranged I walked round the building and pushed open the back door. The small passage inside obviously doubled as a wine cellar and racks of bottles lined the walls. There was a flight of stairs at the far end and on the left a door led presumably to the kitchen. I was tempted to take a quick peep inside but discretion overcame curiosity. I collected the containers left ready for me, snipped down the latch on the door and went on my way.
    As I approached the corner where we’d seen the ram my hands tightened apprehensively on the driving-wheel, but today the fields and hillside falling away below me held no trace of strangeness. Perhaps the atmosphere was expunged of any lingering unease once the foreseen incident had taken place. I put it thankfully out of my mind and minutes later turned into the gateway of St Olaf’s.
    By the time the girls arrived to lay the long table everything was well in hand and for the next half-hour or so I worked harder than I had for some time, ladling steaming mounds of spaghetti and sauce on to a seemingly endless succession of plates.
    â€œThat’s all for in there,” Kitty, the elder girl, said at last. “These three plates are ours. We’ve just enough time to eat it before serving the sweet.”
    We sat down at the small corner table and as we ate they regaled me with news of their boy-friends and their homes in the village. I gathered they spent the rest of the day helping with the housework at one of the college houses.