Alan Hunter (1) (1922–2005)

He turned his head to watch the downs unfolding, their lines etched hard by late sun, and to take in the yellowing aisles of hawthorn, the groves of cow parsley. At last he sighed softly.
'You know what one misses over there? It's just this, an English spring. In Ontario we have nothing like it.'
'What happens in Ontario?'
'What happens? One day it's snow and frozen earth, then suddenly it's all melted away and everything comes out at once. But nothing you can call spring. Across in Kent I've seen hazel catkins at Christmas. Then it goes on, the snowdrops, the blackthorn, the daffodils, the cherries, the young leaf in every colour, the first butterflies, the birdsong. Feller, you don't know where you're at. This you can't buy with a million dollars. Shakespeare* knew. When I come across that speech my eyes dazzle and I can't read it.'

One of the first things Gently had noticed about her was her ready and eager appetite. How she kept her figure was a mystery perhaps known only to the French; it was because, she claimed, that unlike the English she didn’t stuff herself at breakfast . . .

‘So,’ Gently said. ‘If not you, if not another boy friend, who am I looking for?’
Reymerston stared over his glass. ‘Don’t think I haven’t been giving it some thought. Unlike you, I know the field, and unlike you, I know I’m innocent. And unlike you I’m a suspect – which really gets the grey matter weaving. All the same, one doesn’t rush to point a finger at other people.’
‘But you can point one.’

Jules hastily filled a glass and the Englishman took quick gulps. A middle-aged man, he was solidly built and his jacket sagged from hefty shoulders. Also he had an air of authority, of being a man who could handle a situation. As far as one could tell his clothes were of good quality and his waterlogged brogues perhaps handmade.