Late, Late in the Evening

LATE, LATE IN THE EVENING

Gladys Mitchell

CHIVERS

THORNDIKE

This Large Print edition is published by BBC Audiobooks Ltd, Bath, England and by Thorndike Press, Waterville, Maine, USA.

Published in 2004 in the U.K. by arrangement with the author's estate.

Published in 2004 in the U.S. by arrangement with Gregory & Company Author's Agents.

U.K. Hardcover ISBN 0-7540-7688-1 (Chivers Large Print)

U.K. Softcover ISBN 0-7540-7689-X (Camden Large Print)

U.S. Softcover ISBN 0-7862-5948-5 (General)

Copyright © 1976 by Gladys Mitchell

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved.

All situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

The text of this Large Print edition is unabridged.

Other aspects of the book may vary from the original edition.

Set in 16 pt. New Times Roman.

Printed in Great Britain on acid-free paper.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mitchell, Gladys, 1901-

Late, late in the evening / Gladys Mitchell.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-7862-5948-5 (lg. print: sc : alk. paper)

1. Bradley, Beatrice Lestrange (Fictitious character)-Fiction.

2. Women detectives-England-Oxfordshire-Fiction.

3. Oxfordshire (England)-Fiction. 4. Large type books. I. Title.

PR6025.I832L38 2004

823'.912-dc22 2003060182

To REG,

with happy memories of Auld Lang Syne

CONTENTS

Part One: Evidence

1 Margaret and Kenneth

2 Mr Ward

3 The Sheepwash

4 Tea-Party and After

5 Mrs Kempson Puts Pen to Paper

6 All the Fun of the Fair

7 Margaret, Kenneth and Lionel

8 Mrs Kempson Again

9 Letters

10 The Hermit's Cottage

11 Our Special Correspondent

Part Two: Verdict

12 Mrs Lestrange Bradley Takes a Hand

13 The Children's Crusade

14 The Hill Village Irregulars

15 Mrs Lestrange Bradley Again

16 The Wrongful Heir

17 No Alibis

18 The Penny Drops

19 Margaret and Kenneth

Part One: Evidence

CHAPTER ONE

MARGARET AND KENNETH

The village looks different now. It has become an urban overspill area. Factories have grown up, a motorway runs nearby and what used to be open country, including Lye Hill and the vast common we called The Marsh, has been given over to council houses and tall blocks of flats. Even my grandfather's four or five arable acres have gone and in their place there is a housing estate of small, neat bungalows, each with its patch of front lawn and small back garden.

In my early childhood the village occupied only two streets and these were at right-angles to one another. On the road which ran steeply uphill to the manor house my grandfather had built two imposing semi-detached villas. They had flights of broad stone steps up to the front door, basement kitchens which opened into very large, non-basement sculleries at the back and they were furnished with back and front staircases. Grandfather and his widowed daughter, our Aunt Lally, occupied the villa with the passion-flower plant at the side of the front door and the other house, which had trails of periwinkles down the side entrance, belonged to Uncle Arthur and Aunt Kirstie. Both houses had long back gardens with end-gates which opened on to grandfather's small-holding.

My mother and father, who had shared grandfather's house when they were first married, moved to a London suburb after Kenneth was born, so neither he nor I regarded ourselves as natives of the village, although we spent our summers there. When it was term-time we attended the village school. I remember very little about it except that children of all ages were taught in a large room which had been built as a chapel and that (I suppose because of the age-range of the twenty or so pupils) we older ones spent a great deal of our time in an exercise called Transcription. This meant that, in our best handwriting, we copied chunks of history, geography and poetry out of dog-eared, grimy, tattered text-books. I cannot remember that our work was ever tested or corrected, but at any rate it put no strain on the intellect.

When Saturday came there was our pocket-money to spend. Where the bingo hall now stands there used to be old Mother Honour's little post-office and general store and where Miss Summers had her shop, that and a few cottages have been pulled down and a supermarket built.

In our day we usually patronised Mother Honour. She was a shrewish old lady who detested children, but if the brass bowl on her pair of scales hovered uncertainly, she would (grudgingly) drop in another sweet, whereas Miss Summers, who sold bread and buns as well as confectionery, faced with the same problem, would be content to leave the scales wavering always slightly to her advantage, never to ours. She was gushing, blonde and plump, and was said to have designs on the baker who came from the town to deliver the loaves which she sold to the villagers.

The only reason we ever gave her our custom was that she sold so-called brandy balls, hard, dark-brown, glistening, strongly-flavoured sweets which Mother Honour did not stock. They could be pouched in the cheek and made to last a good long time. I think the two shopkeepers must have had some kind of gentleman's agreement not to duplicate their stock, so that there should be no poaching on one another's preserves. 'Live and let live' seemed to be their motto, and although neither woman was conspicuously prosperous, nor did either of them fail to make ends meet.

We had several sets of relations in and around the village, but when we played with other children it was not with our cousins, who were mostly older than we were, but under the leadership and guidance, not to say protection and patronage, of a biggish girl known as Our Sarah. We were pleased to belong to her band, although she bossed us about, as she did all the other children. I always felt, though, that Kenneth and I were mere hangers-on, for she never addressed us by our names. It was always: 'Hoy, you young Oi say! Come on out o' that brook. Your auntie's 'olleren for you,' or, 'Hoy you young Oi say! Tuck them trousis up 'oigher, else you be goen to get 'em wet, and then you won't arf get an 'oiden.'

The brook was our chief plaything. It conveniently ran alongside The Marsh at the bottom of our grandfather's acres, so that Kenneth and I could cross on to The Marsh by way of an iron gate and a broad plank bridge, both of them grandfather's property, whereas all the other children had to walk to the end of the village and cross by a bridge which spanned a culvert. It never occurred either to us or to them that they should take the short cut across grandfather's land. Perhaps they, like ourselves, went in awe of him, for he was in all respects the village patriarch and owned more than half its cottages.

Apart from giving easy access to the brook, his grounds were a paradise for young children. There were raspberry canes and currant bushes which we were allowed to plunder as we pleased. There were pigs, ducks, chickens, sometimes a calf and there was also a stable containing a vicious mare named Polly whom we were forbidden to approach.

Best of all there were Uncle Arthur's whippets, Floss and Vicky. Floss was a graceful fawn-coloured animal, a bitch in every sense, for she had a most unpredictable temper, loving you one minute and, for no apparent reason, viciously snapping at you the next.

Vicky, on the other hand, was a liver-coloured little love, the sweetest-natured creature that ever allowed young children to dress her up in their sweaters, almost smother her with clumsy caresses and take her for walks with an undignified piece of string tied to her collar. Her affection for us was boundless and was as sincere as it was touching.

We had little in common with the ducks or chickens. The latter pecked us when we turned them off their roosting boxes to collect the eggs, and we were nauseated by the former when we saw two of them disputing possession of a frog. We rescued the frog and Kenneth took it over to the well, but in dropping it in he slipped and went in, too-luckily feet first. He managed to clutch the edge of the brickwork and I held on to him and bellowed for help. Fortunately this happened to be at hand in the person of Uncle Arthur, who was boiling tiny jacket potatoes in an outside copper for the pigs. As a reward for saving Kenneth's life I claimed and was given as many of the pigs' delicious potatoes as I could eat.

We took all our meals at Aunt Kirstie's. She was a better cook than Aunt Lally and a much more indulgent person than grandfather, who found children a nuisance at the table because he said we chattered. We would have liked to stay altogether with Aunt Kirstie and Uncle Arthur, but two of their upstairs rooms were given over permanently to a lodger, a snuff-taking, silent old gentleman named Mr Ward, who (so we heard) was some connexion of the Kempsons up at the manor house. So far as I remember, he never addressed a word to us, but sometimes we would come upon him out on The Marsh or at the foot of Lye Hill near the sheepwash. He would be digging, but for what purpose we had no idea.

He was not the only person in the village about whom we speculated. Another was Mrs Grant. She was always to be found seated on the doorstep of her respectable little cottage and she never seemed to cease rocking herself to and fro and declaiming to anybody who was passing, 'I hab de ague, bery bad, bery bad.' She claimed to be Maltese and the widow of an English sailor. The village children used to mock her. We were neither old enough, nor courageous enough, to take her side against their tauntings, but at least we never joined in the teasing. I think now that she was not a Maltese, but an African. She was certainly darker-skinned than the Maltese I have seen since, and her lamentations had an air of African fatality about them. The village children would shout,

'Black-pudden! Black-pudden!' as they passed her; but, as Kenneth said to me:

'Black-puddings are very nice, and I expect she'd be nice, too, if we ever got to know her.' (We did, in a way, later on because of the murders.)

Further down the road lived the Widow Winter, whose sole occupation, once she had whitened her doorstep, seemed to be to spy on the rest of the village from behind a barricade of flowering plants. She believed, I suppose, that these hid her prying eyes from passers-by while she watched from her parlour window, hour after hour, the comings and goings of her neighbours. I have no doubt that she knew exactly how often the people across the street washed their lace curtains, how long Miss Summers spent in her daily dallyings with the baker and exactly what was in everybody's string bag when people came back from their weekend shopping at the Co-op in the town. Everybody did the big weekend shopping at the Co-op because of something mysterious called the divvy.

From these Saturday expeditions we could always expect a pleasant surprise on Sunday mornings, for on the bedside table in Aunt Kirstie's room would be sugar mice in pink or white with tiny black eyes and their tails made out of string, or there might be sugar pigs or a bar of chocolate cream. Another joy was bathtime. At that age we were bathed in the large zinc tub Aunt Kirstie used for her laundry. There was no bathroom and the stone-floored scullery was considered too cold, even in summer, so, as there was always a fire in the kitchen for cooking, we were bathed in front of that. I remember that there was some special soap (said to have been made in Japan) which floated, and when we had been dried we had a glorious toasting in front of the fire.

Almost opposite our two villas there were two semi-detached cottages. They were inhabited by a brother and sister who had quarrelled many years before we were born and who never spoke to one another. They had long, beautifully-tended gardens which bordered the road and the two old people were at war every fruit-picking season with the village children, for the old lady grew strawberries and the old man had a particularly fine pear-tree. I do not believe Kenneth and I would ever have joined in the raids but, in any case, there was no temptation for us, as grandfather grew more fruit than we could eat or the aunts could make into jam.

At the end of the village, opposite Mother Honour's shop, was a tumble-down cottage where a hermit had once lived. The cottage was in the last stages of disrepair and he himself had been ragged and indescribably filthy. After he died it was discovered that he had pulled up all the floorboards and must have used them for fuel. So far as anybody could make out, all he had to live on were the stale loaves from Miss Summers' shop. Her one and only charitable action was to leave any leftovers on her doorstep overnight. As they had always disappeared by morning, it was assumed that the hermit collected them under cover of darkness and ate them.

Outside the village, but still in a sense of it, as were the people at the manor house, there were the gypsies who, every summer, had an encampment at the top of Lye Hill. Lye Hill was forbidden territory to Kenneth and me. The reason given to us by Aunt Lally (she who looked after our grandfather) was that the gypsies kidnapped small children and sold them as slaves, but the real reason (as I found out much later) was that Lye Hill was an extension of Lovers' Lane, which was also forbidden territory to us because the villagers did all their coupling in summer in the open air.

To speak to Old Sukie, the gypsy who, now and again, walked into the town with a male companion to sell clothes-pegs and paper flowers, was the favourite village 'dare' and, so far as I know, had no takers until Kenneth volunteered to waylay the so-called witch and pass the time of day with her. As my pride and my sense of responsibility would not allow me to leave him to his fate, I went along, although most unwillingly and with great trepidation, to support him. Day after day we waited on the drove road which ran alongside the brook and at last, while the village children watched from a safe distance, Kenneth's opportunity came.

When he saw the gypsies approaching, Sukie with a large wicker basket on her arm and the man slouching along beside her, Kenneth pulled his cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and then, as the gypsies came almost up to us, he raised it politely and said, 'Good morning, madam. It's a very nice morning, isn't it?'

The man muttered something and did not shorten his stride but, to my alarm, Old Sukie stopped. However, she smiled and said, 'Good day to you, my little gentleman. Wear a flower for me, then, my lover. You have a lucky face.' With that, and with Kenneth standing his ground while I drew back a pace, she picked a paper flower from her basket and handed it to him before she strode on after her man. Although she was always known as Old Sukie, she could not have been more than thirty years of age. She was a striking-looking woman in her gypsy fashion, and she carried herself like a queen.

The dark man with her-her husband, I suppose, although Our Sarah told us, with a great air of mystery and with what I now realise was a lascivious gleam in her eye, that if they were married at all it was 'only over the tongs-' was a furtive-looking fellow, but lithe and tigerish. He was tall for a gypsy and his slouching stride covered the ground with an effortless unhurried, prowling effect which was more frightening to us even than the reputation Sukie had of being a witch. His silence, too, and his apparent disregard of our presence, carried their own menace.

Soon after our first acquaintance, if one may call it that, with the gypsies, Kenneth and I gained a new companion. This was a puckish-looking, unusually tall young boy wearing a blue shirt and grey-flannel shorts who came barefoot down the road one day and found us about to take Vicky for a walk. He stopped and spoke, with an intonation so unlike our own that we were somewhat abashed, for we recognised him, in spite of his workaday costume, tousled hair and bare feet, as what Aunt Lally called 'one of the gentry'.

'Hullo. Is that your dog?' he asked.

'My uncle's,' I explained.

'It's going to rain.'

This non sequitur nonplussed me.

'How do you know?' I demanded. Instead of replying, he asked,

'Has your aunt-I suppose you've got an aunt if you've got an uncle-has she a good big tin bath? A really big one, I mean.'

'There is one, yes,' said Kenneth. 'She does the washing in it.' He did not add that we were bathed in it, too.

'Oh, good,' said the boy. 'I should think a lot of water comes down this hill when it rains.' He wriggled a big toe into the soft surface of the road. 'Nothing but sand,' he said. 'Tell you what. I'll wait for you while you take the dog out, then you borrow this tin bath of your aunt's and a spade or a trowel, see? Then we sink the bath in the middle of the road and the rainwater fills it up and we paddle. All right?'

'Suppose somebody wants to bring a cart along, or the doctor comes by on his horse?' said Kenneth.

'In the rain? Oh, they won't. Off you go with your dog and don't be long. As soon as the dog has done what it has to do, back you come, do you see? And hurry it up a bit.'

'Who do you think you're talking to?' said Kenneth. 'Besides, we wouldn't be given the bath to play with, or be allowed to paddle in the road in the rain. You must be daft!'

'What can we do, then?' asked the boy, deflated quite obviously by this spirited comment.

'If you'd like to come with us, you can,' I replied, 'then when we come back you could see our pigs and have a go on our swing in the cartshed.'

'I'd rather paddle.'

'Well, look,' said Kenneth. 'I dare say Aunt Kirstie would let us paddle in the bath if we had it in the scullery. There's a big enamel jug in there to fill it. It would be quicker than waiting for the rain. Or there's the brook. That's better still for paddling.'

'What brook?'

'Come with us, and we'll show you.'

'All right. What's your name?'

'Kenneth Clifton. This is my sister Margaret.'

'How do you do? I am Lionel Kempson-Conyers. We only began the summer vac. yesterday and already I'm bored. The house'-he jerked his head towards the top of the hill-'is going to be full up with people and nobody's got any time for me. My parents have gone back to France. They live there mostly. They'll bring back my sister, who's at finishing-school over there. There isn't even a pony to ride here. It's just too plain boring for words. Do you play cricket?'

'Not really,' replied Kenneth. 'Can you box?'

'No, worse luck. We don't take boxing at school until we're eleven and I'm only nine.'

This surprised us because of his height, but all Kenneth said was, 'I'm eight and my sister's ten.'

'Can she box?'

'Of course. Our Uncle Arthur teaches both of us.'

'How decent for you.' By this time we were strolling along, with Vicky on her bit of string, towards the end of the village. By the time Aunt Kirstie had tea ready we were back from our walk and were taking turns on the swing. At Lionel Kempson-Conyers' suggestion, we were having a competition to see who could be the first to kick a bit off the cartshed roof, which was made of sheets of corrugated iron.

* * *

Lionel stayed to tea that day. After that, more often than not, he came down the hill into the village to play with us. Our Sarah was contemptuous of our new acquaintance.

'Hoy, you young Oi say,' she remarked bitterly one morning before Lionel came along, 'who be that there young Oi say as you be goen weth nowadays?'

'He's a friend of ours,' said Kenneth, 'but, truly, Our Sarah, we'd rather be with you.'

'So you says. A lettle bet of a lah-di-dah, ennee? Seems loike I heered hem talken to you t'other day loike the gentry talks, and that's talk as Oi don't 'old weth, nor moi dad neether.'

'I think he's a nobleman's son. His name is Lionel Kempson-Conyers. Wouldn't you call that a nobleman's name? And I think he goes to boarding-school. He calls it a prep. school and they get the cane there ever so often,' said Kenneth. 'I'd hate to go there.'

'You ever had the cane, you young Oi say?'

'No,' said Kenneth, 'I shouldn't allow it.'

'What 'ud ee do, then?'

'Hit the teacher in the stomach, which is pretty effective, though it's against the Queensberry rules. That's if it was a man. I should take the cane away and break it, if it was a woman,' said Kenneth. Sarah eyed him.

'Fierce as a maggot, beant ee?' she said sardonically. 'Well, Oi tells ee thes: you ded oughter watch out, 'cos ef thes 'ere young Oi say be one o' them Kempson lot, moi dad do say as they ain't no better 'an they should be.'

'What does that mean?'

'Never you moind what et means at your age. You'll know all about et when you be older.'

'Our Sarah,' said Kenneth earnestly, 'Lionel hates all his relations up at the big house. Will you let him join the band? He isn't really lah-di-dah, I promise you. Can't he come to the sheepwash with us?'

No embargo was ever placed on our playing in and beside the brook, but the sheepwash at the foot of Lye Hill was supposed to be out of bounds to us. It was a part of the brook which had been artificially deepened and its sides had been shored up, but in our time it was never used for its original purpose, for there were no longer any sheep on The Marsh or on the hill. Whereas the brook itself was nowhere more than a few inches deep, the sheepwash which it fed had a depth of about a foot at its shallowest and almost four feet of water in the deepest part. We often went there in spite of prohibitions, for it made a splendid pool, and there was a game of seeing how far you could wade in without actually wetting your clothes. Kenneth slipped over once and got himself soaked. Our Sarah squeezed him as dry as she could and then ran him all the way home and delivered him to Aunt Kirstie with the remark, ''Ere be your young Oi say, missus. Fell over en the brook and wet hesself. 'Tweren't hes fault, Oi don't reckon. Our Ern gev hem a lettle bet of a shove, loike. Oi'll sort Our Ern when Oi cotches up weth hem.'

I remember that we debated earnestly that night when we got to bed-for at that time we still shared a room-whether or not we ought to confess that it was in the sheepwash, and not in the brook proper, that Kenneth had had his ducking. However, we agreed, with smug sanctimoniousness, that it would be hard lines on Our Sarah if we let her down after she had told such gallant fibs on our behalf. 'Besides,' added Kenneth, Aunt Kirstie might make us promise on our honour not to go near the sheepwash again, and that would be very awkward.'

'And, after all, the sheepwash is the brook,' I said, 'when you come right down to it.' (Even at the time I was slightly ashamed of this piece of sophistry.)

'It was good of Our Sarah to blame it on Ern, because he wasn't even there,' said Kenneth. 'We can't make her out to be a-to tell stories, can we?' (The word liar was on the forbidden list in our vocabulary; so was hell. As for damn and bloody, these were not words we ever heard except from the lips of drunken men, and even then they filled us with pity and terror, as being expressions which even God, powerful though we knew Him to be, could neither excuse nor forgive.)

It is no wonder that in some ways we were a couple of sanctimonious little prigs. Our nightly prayers, for example, were always said downstairs quite often in front of a circle of admiring relatives of whom Aunt Lally, although not the most loving, was the most sentimental. She would exclaim, when the recitation of our little piece was over: 'Don't they say them words pretty!' Then she would present each of us with a biscuit out of a special tin and we would go up to bed feeling satisfied with our performance, although a little scornful of our aunt, who had not realised what an artistic bit of eye-wash it had been.

CHAPTER TWO

MR WARD

As usual we enjoyed ourselves down at the sheepwash. Lionel asked how deep it was.

'Deep enough to drownd two loike you, you young Oi say,' replied Our Sarah. Lionel went over to the hedge which bordered Lye Hill and broke off a long stick. He lay on his stomach and tested the depth of the water at the deepest part, but the stick did not reach the bottom.

'Oh, good!' he said. 'If you girls would go away, we boys could have a good dip.'

'That ud be rude,' said Our Sarah. 'You ent got your bathers weth ee.'

'Oh, no, it wouldn't be rude. Of course it wouldn't. We always bathe naked at school.'

'Oi tell ee et's rude.'

'Then you're an ignorant peasant.'

'No, she isn't,' said Kenneth. 'It depends on the point of view. And it's very ignorant of you to talk about peasants when you only mean villagers.'

'Can you swim?' asked Lionel. We had noticed that he always retreated in some way or other when he was contradicted or challenged. We also soon found out that he blabbed, so we did not tell him much.

'He's a bit of a coward, isn't he?' said Kenneth to me, later. 'I mean, I'm a year younger than him and not nearly as tall. He ought to have busted me one. I quite expected it.'

'I expect he's been bullied at school,' I replied. In the boys' books we got from the library when we were at home there was always bullying at boarding-schools. 'It would make anybody a coward if they were always being bullied.'

'Father gave me sixpence last year for punching Tom Speery when he tried it on.'

'Because Tom was older and bigger than you. I wish I could earn sixpence that way.'

'I split it with you, didn't I?'

'It's not the same as earning it.'

'Do you suppose Lionel gets much pocket-money?'

'We've never been with him when he spent any.'

'Perhaps he's a miser as well as a coward, and I know he blabs about things you'd think ought to be a secret.'

'Some people say the old man who died-that tramp who had the tumble-down place at the bottom of the hill-some people say he was a miser.'

'I wonder! If he was, he could have left a hidden treasure-money, you know, or jewels.'

'In that cottage?'

'Well, he might have done. Such things have been known. Maybe he left a code message to say where he buried it.'

'Or a map, like Treasure Island.'

'We might go and see.'

'Would we take Lionel?'

'Why? It's our idea, not his. Besides, he's been to tea with us twice, but he's never asked us back.'

'Perhaps he can't. Besides, what would we do in a big house like his? There might be all sorts of difficulties. Suppose we spilt our tea or knocked something over?'

'It wouldn't matter. Rich children always have tea in the schoolroom or the nursery. They never have meals with their parents downstairs.'

'Anyway, what about the old man's treasure?'

We decided to try our luck at the cottage without Lionel's assistance. Breakfast for us was at eight and we always had it without Mr Ward, who did not often come downstairs until ten. Aunt Kirstie was never known to grumble at having to cook a separate breakfast for him. He seldom appeared at lunch, either. Our Sarah told us that she reckoned he got his mid-day meal at the pub and added the further information that he was a dirty old man.

'I wouldn't call him dirty, would you?' Kenneth said.

'He takes snuff and blows his nose rather a lot,' I replied. 'Perhaps that's what she meant.' It was eight o'clock on a fine Saturday morning. We were surprised to find a used cup and saucer and a greasy plate in Mr Ward's place at table when we came down.

'He came early for his breakfast,' Aunt Kirstie explained. 'Got to go out and do a bit more digging, he told me. Well, what's it to be? Bacon and egg and a bit of black-pudding?'

'And fried bread,' said Kenneth. We never took long to eat our meals, but that Saturday morning we were even quicker than usual. We had exchanged glances when we heard that Mr Ward had had his breakfast at least two hours earlier than usual and had announced that he was going out to dig, and the same thought was in both our minds. Mr Ward must have had the same idea as we had. He must have got wind of treasure buried under the floor of the hermit's cottage. There could be no other explanation.

We cleared our plates, thanked God for our good breakfast, Amen, and rushed out of doors. Breakfast was always in Aunt Kirstie's big basement kitchen, so the quickest way out was through the scullery into the back garden and up the sloping side-walk.

Mr Ward was not at the hermit's cottage. He was shovelling away among Uncle Arthur's gladioli. We were delighted to see him there, although we thought Uncle Arthur would be less pleased.

'We'll go to the cottage,' said Kenneth, 'and have a good look round for any clues to the treasure before he gets there.'

'I believe we ought to tell Aunt Kirstie what Mr Ward is up to,' I said. 'It's a pity Uncle Arthur isn't at home.'

'She may not like to interfere. He pays for his board and lodging, you know.'

We debated the point as we walked towards the road and by the time we got round to the front of the house I had gained my way, so we went back again to tell Aunt Kirstie that Mr Ward was digging up the gladioli, but, when we turned in at grandfather's big gates, Mr Ward had found a new place to dig.

He was in the middle of grandfather's big chicken run and was busy there scooping away with his spade, while the hens were squawking and fluttering and the Rhode Island Red cock, always the bravest bird, was making little, abortive rushes at Mr Ward's elastic-sided boots.

'A good thing we did come back,' said Kenneth, as Mr Ward took a swipe at the cock with his spade. 'Come on, quick!' We ran towards him and Kenneth bravely shouted out: 'Mr Ward! Mr Ward! Aunt Kirstie wants you!' Then we went in at the garden gate to find Aunt Kirstie for ourselves. When she came with us, however, having waited to take off her apron and tidy her hair-but really, I think, to pluck up courage before she tackled Mr Ward, of whom we knew she was somewhat in awe because of his superior social status-he was no longer in the chicken run, so off we went towards the cottage.

At that time we had to go down the village street to get there, although we found a better way later. However, just as we were opposite Mrs Grant's house-she was seated on her doorstep as usual, rocking herself and moaning about her ague-a man on horseback caught up with us and reined in. We recognised him as Doctor Matters' assistant. His name was Doctor Tassall.

'You youngsters want to earn a penny?' he asked.

'Each?' asked Kenneth. The young doctor laughed.

'All right, Shylock my son, a penny each,' he said.

'To do what?' I asked.

'To post a letter in the box on Mrs Honour's wall. I've got to go in and have a look at this patient, and I don't want to miss the post.'

We noticed then that Mrs Grant had retreated into her cottage. The doctor dismounted, handed Kenneth the letter and a penny, gave me a penny, tied his horse up to Mrs Grant's railings and went into the cottage. We walked on down the hill to post the letter in Old Mother Honour's pillar-box. It was not really a pillar-box, just a post-office opening in the shop wall with the times of collection on it. Of course we read the envelope before we posted it.

'Miss A. Kempson-Conyers,' I said. 'Hill Manor House, Hill, Oxon. It must be to one of Lionel's relations.'

'He said he'd got an older sister,' said Kenneth. We put the letter in the box and then had a short discussion on how best to lay out the pennies we had been given. We had our usual Saturday pennies with us as well, and such riches merited careful thought in the spending. In the end we agreed to tackle the treasure-hunt first and lay out our augmented income on the way home.

'We shall have to watch out,' I said. 'Always a crowd of hangers-on when they know we've got anything to spend.' This sounds a mean kind of remark, but we had learned the hard way and had grown cagey about sharing our sweets with anybody but one another. There were some rapacious characters in the village.

'Bloody cormorants!' said Kenneth. 'Heard a man say it when Uncle Arthur took us to the covered market,' he added, seeing my look of horrified admiration. 'Shan't say it again, I promise you, but some of the big ones are.'

I stored up the phrase for use in our London school playground and we crossed the road and approached the decrepit cottage. Away on The Marsh we could hear the village children at play. Inside the cottage another sound was being made. We halted and listened. It was plain enough what was happening there. Nobody could mistake the sound of a pickaxe.

'We've been out-smarted,' muttered Kenneth. 'Let's sneak up and see who it is.'

The cottage had no front door. That, like the floor-boards, had disappeared long since and, from previous peering through the iron railings which shut off the back garden of the cottage from grandfather's land, we knew that all the other doors-the kitchen, the woodshed and the earth-closet-had gone the same way. We also knew that the cottage was 'two up and two down'. The stairs, however, were now completely unsafe, although Our Ern, a foxy, freckled little boy as thin as a skinned rabbit and as active as a squirrel, had once climbed up them as a 'dare' and had endured a punishing punch-up with Our Sarah afterwards for risking his neck, because part of the staircase had come down with him when he descended.

All the cottages on that side of the street had narrow back gardens which abutted on to grandfather's land and, as he owned all of them, grandfather had seen to it that they had no back entrances, so that the tenants could not trespass on his small-holding. The hermit's cottage was no exception. I once heard Aunt Lally ask grandfather why he had not turned the hermit out, repaired the cottage and let it, but all he said was, 'Live and let live, my lass. Remember what happened to Dives, who also had a beggar at his gate.'

'They're in the front room,' said Kenneth, 'whoever it is. Let's go round the back.'

'We can't,' I said. 'Not to sneak in, I mean. We can't get over that iron fence, and, if we did get over, we might not be able to get back.'

'Oh, that's all right. There's a ladder in the cartshed. We could use that.'

'To get over? Well, perhaps, but we still couldn't get back without lifting the ladder across, and I don't believe we could manage it. The ladder's too long and heavy.'

'We'll worry about that later on.'

'We could get in over the side wall,' I said, eyeing the only part of the property which grandfather kept in repair to mark the boundary of his jurisdiction, for the cottage was the last one in the road, 'if it wasn't for all that broken glass on top.'

'Yes, that's no good. Well, come on. Let's get that ladder. We'd better go in through grandfather's big gates again, not the side entrance. We don't want anybody to see us. There might be questions asked.'

The big gates were those through which we had passed to get to the chicken run and through which, at one time, when he and Polly the horse were younger, our grandfather had driven the wagon to market. They were always wide open nowadays and nobody except ourselves used them. We trudged up the hill, darted in through the big gates to the smallholding and took the broad path to the well. Here we turned at right-angles for the cartshed and found the ladder. It was long and heavy. In the end it proved too much for us.

'Oh, blow!' said Kenneth. 'Now what do we do?'

'If it's a workman to do some repairs, he'll knock off at twelve,' I said. 'Let's go and spend our money and wait for him to go.'

'It's hours before twelve. I vote we snake in by the front door and see who's there. If it's a workman he'll only tell us to hop it.'

'But I don't believe it is a workman,' I said. 'I heard Uncle Arthur tell Aunt Kirstie that all the place was fit for was to come down and that he was sorry for the chaps who had to do the job because the bugs would be worse than a London slum. Anyway, it's Saturday. They wouldn't start a job like that on a Saturday.'

'Then it's Mr Ward. He might get waxy if we spied on him.'

'All right, then, let's spend. Brandy balls or Old Mother Honour?'

'We've got enough for both.' We stopped at Miss Summers' shop. It was not a real shop, as Old Mother Honour's was. By that I mean it had been built as an ordinary house, but Miss Summers' father, who had had it before her, had altered the front window and made it into a big, square bay with a broad shelf behind on which were loaves and buns and a couple of jars of sweets to show that she sold those as well.

As we were looking in at the window, Our Ern came up behind us.

'Hullo! Spenden?' he asked covetously. 'Me, Oi be saven up for the fair.'

'Oh, so are we,' said Kenneth. 'How much have you got?'

'Two shellen and tuppence. Oi ben sellen buckets o' dung. Our Sarah, her got near enough foive bob. Her ben taken lettle babies out. Sometoimes her gets gev as much as a sexpence for that.'

'Where does she get the babies from?' (Kenneth knew that nobody in the village would give twopence, let alone sixpence, for pushing a baby out in its perambulator.)

'En the town of a Saturday afternoon when her's done out our bedrooms.'

'And where do you get the manure?'

'At the stables where the College gents keeps their 'orses. Oi reckons to 'ave foive bob, too, come the fair.'

'You could take babies out, couldn't you?' said Kenneth, when Our Ern had gone.

'No, I couldn't. I hate babies,' I said. 'And you wouldn't be allowed to collect buckets of manure, so you needn't think any more about it.'

'I could get it from old Polly's stable, but I wouldn't know where to sell it.'

'Old Polly bites and kicks. Look, the coast's clear. Let's buy the brandy balls.'

We did this, and bought four ounces between us instead of two ounces each.

'That way,' said Kenneth, when we left the shop, 'she can only cheat us out of one brandy ball, not two.' I did not need this explanation, as the manoeuvre was one we had used before. The only snag was that sometimes, when it came to the divvying up, there was an odd instead of an even number of brandy balls. However, we were accustomed to solve this problem by taking turns at sucking the extra sweet. On arrival at Mother Honour's we saw a couple of the village children coming towards us, so we did not stop, but strolled on as though we were going on to The Marsh.

'Ent you got nothen to spend, then?' asked one child, with a sneer. 'Thought you was rech!'

'Saving up for the fair,' said Kenneth promptly. 'What about you?'

'Oh,' said the other, 'us too an' all. Bet you ent got as much as Oi 'ave.'

'Six shillings,' said Kenneth, lying, of course.

'Garn! Oi don't believe et! Let's see et, then.'

'You'll see it when the time comes.'

'Foight you for et!'

'You don't think I carry it about with me, do you? My uncle is minding it for me. You can fight him for it, if you like.' We strolled on. As we turned the corner I glanced back.

'O.K. They've gone into their house,' I said. As we came out of Mother Honour's we saw Mr Ward come out of the hermit's cottage. Kenneth pulled me back inside the shop, so Mr Ward did not see us. As we watched from the doorway, he took the road which led to the pub.

'So that's who it was in there,' I said. 'I thought as much. Good thing we didn't go in.'

'Let's see what he's been up to,' said Kenneth. 'He's sure to be gone at least half an hour.'

'I'm not interested now I know it's Mr Ward. He's always digging,' I said. 'First the gladioli, then the chicken run and now this.'

'I know he's always digging,' said Kenneth. 'Come on! He wasn't carrying anything when he came out, so he can't have found the treasure.' I think my brother had convinced himself by this time that treasure had been hidden in the cottage. I was not equally convinced. I was two years older than Kenneth. Besides, I was very much afraid of Mr Ward. I thought he was slightly mad and I wanted nothing to do with him or his affairs. 'We've nothing to dig with,' I said feebly.

'Don't be daft! His spade and things will be in there, won't they?'

I had no more excuses to offer. We crossed the road and sneaked in at the open doorway. Like the rest of the cottages, this one had no front hall. We found ourselves in what had been the parlour before the hermit had turned it into a pigsty. The only light came in through the doorway, for the window was filthy with grime and covered in cobwebs. The whole place stank horribly and we were very careful not to go near the walls.

Somebody ('I bet it was Mr Ward,' said Kenneth) had dug a deep, wide hole in the boardless floor. It reminded me of a grave. A spade and a pickaxe were lying on the ground near it.

'Let's get out of here,' I said.

* * *

We talked about the cottage as we walked home.

'There couldn't be treasure in a place like that,' I said.

'If there is, I bet the hermit put a curse on it,' my brother said. 'What did you make of Mr Ward's hole?'

'It could had been a grave. You don't think he's murdered somebody, do you?'

'He looks like a murderer. I call him a very sinister sort of man. I tell you what! Why don't we keep an eye on Mr Ward?-tail him, you know, like they do in the Secret Service.'

'He'd find out and complain to Aunt Kirstie or perhaps even go for us. If he is a murderer, then he must be fleeing from justice and he would be capable of anything,' I protested.

'Well, let's not actually tail him, then, but just sort of keep an eye on him. It ought to be easy enough because I've thought how we could get into that cottage garden if we really wanted to.'

'How? We can't manage that ladder. Much too heavy and if we asked Our Sarah or some others to help us carry it, we'd have to let them into the garden, too. Besides, Our Ern would sneak.'

'My plan wouldn't need anybody except you and me and that iron bar in Uncle Arthur's toolshed.'

'What's the idea, then?'

I'll show you on Monday. Some big boys at our London school did it to get into the recreation ground from the canal bank without having to go all the way round by the road.'

CHAPTER THREE

THE SHEEPWASH

I guessed what Kenneth meant to do, although I doubted whether even our combined strength could accomplish it.

'The boys you mean were bigger and tougher than us,' I said.

'Oh, we shall manage all right. It's only a question of leverage. Mr Crandon told us that with proper leverage you could turn the world upside down if only you could find somewhere else to stand while you were doing it.'

'You'd have to stand on the moon, I should think. That would be the nearest.' (This, of course, was many years before the miracle occurred and men actually did land on the moon.)

'Well, be that as it may (that's another of Mr Crandon's gags), you know what I mean, because at home we got through the gap ourselves one Saturday morning when the park-keeper wasn't about, so on Monday we'll try with Uncle Arthur's iron bar. Tomorrow I think we'll go down to the sheepwash and see if we can spot Old Sukie again,' said Kenneth.

'On a Sunday?'

'Oh, I see what you mean.' The fact that we knew perfectly well that the sheepwash was forbidden to us could be passed over on weekdays, but to sin on a Sunday was different. There was the never-to-be-forgotten occasion on which, surprisingly, Uncle Arthur had decided to take us for a walk on a Sunday morning and as we reached the outskirts of the town we found a paper-shop open. Uncle Arthur went in and bought a Sunday paper and came out with some nut-milk chocolate for us. We ate it, of course, but, although it was an almost unheard-of luxury, I cannot say I enjoyed it very much.

'Do you think we'll go to hell for eating things bought on a Sunday?' Kenneth had enquired.

'We didn't do the actual buying ourselves,' I pointed out.

'When Aunt Lally was talking about boys scrumping pears and strawberries off those people opposite and sharing them out, on a promise not to tell, she said the receiver was worse than the thief.'

'Yes, but Uncle Arthur didn't steal the chocolate. He bought it fair and square with his own money. Besides, we couldn't refuse it. He would have been awfully offended. Nut-milk chocolate is about the most expensive sweet you can buy.'

'Perhaps we could make up for eating it. Put ourselves right some way.'

'Give most of our next brandy balls to Our Ern?' (That year we had only a halfpenny a week pocket-money.)

'No, that would be going too far. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll each put one brandy ball down the well as a sacrifice. That ought to get us in the clear.'

'We'd only have three left.'

'Yes, well, let's just add a private bit when we say our prayers tonight. That ought to do. Even God couldn't really expect us not to eat the chocolate when Uncle Arthur had bought it for us.'

As it turned out, when Sunday came and went, our consciences were clear. We spent no money, having none left to spend, and we even allowed Aunt Lally to pressurise us into going to Sunday school. She was always suggesting it and our usual response was to make ourselves scarce as soon as we could.

On this particular Sunday, however, we were unlucky. The blow fell at the very beginning of the day. We had come downstairs at nine because Aunt Lally always allowed herself what she called 'a long lie-in' on Sunday mornings, and were about to go over to Aunt Kirstie's when grandfather, seated as usual in his big leather-covered armchair, said, 'You'll breakfast and dine with us today. Kirstie and Arthur have business up at the manor.'

We asked no questions. Grandfather, in addition to his patriarchal appearance and dignified bearing, was autocratic and short-tempered and, I think, not very fond of children, having had eight of his own.

Kenneth said (daringly, I thought),

'They generally leave us something on their bedside table. We go in to say good morning and there's chocolate cream or something.'

'It's here,' said grandfather, pointing to the sideboard with the silver-topped ebony stick he always had by him. 'You may have it after breakfast.'

After breakfast, which was bacon and eggs and fried bread, but not nearly such good fried bread as Aunt Kirstie's, we were told to go upstairs again and put on our best clothes.

'But we never change until after Sunday dinner,' I said, looking down at my print frock.

'Your grandfather likes to see you dressed up pretty on a Sunday,' said Aunt Lally, ushering us up the stairs as though she thought we would cut and run if she were not there to superintend us. 'He'll give you a button-hole to wear to Sunday school if you're good children.'

'But we don't go to Sunday school. It's a waste of time,' said Kenneth.

'That's wicked talk,' said Aunt Lally, shocked. 'Besides, your cousins are coming to call for you at a quarter to ten. They always go to Sunday school in the morning, yes, and to Mission Hall at night.'

The only cousins still young enough to go to Sunday school were Uncle George's children, Cissie and Dannie. We despised them, and they disliked us. However, it was of no use to argue. Along with them we had to go. I had tumbled down the day before and was not anxious to exhibit my scars in public, so the triumph of Cissie and Dannie was complete when, near the beginning of the proceedings, the Sunday school superintendent, a bearded man with a cast in one eye, pointed straight at me and said sternly,

'Stop talking, that little girl with the scrazed nose!' (I was not talking. It was Cissie.)

However, we were free at last, and just as we reached grandfather's front gate and were discussing what there was likely to be for Sunday dinner-'Chicken, I hope,' said Kenneth-we saw Aunt Kirstie and Uncle Arthur coming towards us down the hill. We rushed up to them.

'Thank you for the chocolate cream pigs,' I said. 'We've been to Sunday school. It was horrible. We knew much more about the Romans than the teacher who took our class. She was just plain ignorant. She only knew what was in the Bible.'

'That's no way to talk,' said Aunt Kirstie, who always paid lip-service, but no more, to religious observances. 'Sunday school is very nice and proper.'

'Can we have dinner with you instead of with Aunt Lally?' asked Kenneth.

'No, that you can't. Lally has killed and plucked a chicken specially. Besides, ours isn't even in the oven yet.'

'Aunt Lally said you went to the manor house. Did you really?'

'Your aunt don't tell lies,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'You'll maybe hear all about it later on.'

'Was it about Mr Ward?'

'Now why on earth should you ask me that?'

'Only because Lionel let out one day that Mr Ward was some kind of relation of his. He said he was a remittance man. What does that mean, Aunt Kirstie?'

'Only that he's kept by the family and doesn't have to work for his living.'

'Why doesn't he?'

'Because he was a gentleman born and has delicate health. And now you'd better run along, else Lally's dinner will spoil and I'll get the blame for keeping you talking.'

'You know what I think,' said Kenneth, when Sunday dinner was over and we had been settled on our own in the sitting-room with copies of an uplifting but dull periodical which Aunt Lally bought each Saturday when she went to the town for her shopping. 'I think Mr Ward is an ex-convict and Mrs Kempson or someone pays Aunt Kirstie to look after him, because the family don't want to own him any more. Lionel practically said as much, you know.'

'He could even be a lunatic,' I said. 'He acts like one at times.'

'We ought to be careful. He might be a criminal lunatic, and we did wonder whether he was a murderer. I'm glad we don't sleep at Aunt Kirstie's.'

'Why do you think they had to go to the manor house? It was something to do with Mr Ward. I'm sure of it.'

'Perhaps to ask for more money for looking after him.'

'Aunt Kirstie wouldn't do that.'

'Well, perhaps Uncle Arthur would.'

'I don't think they went of their own accord. I think they were sent for. It would be much more likely.'

'Oh, I don't know. They're not Mrs Kempson's servants.'

Speculation was idle. We gave it up, but, on the following day, when we were able to resume our normal routine, our suspicions that Mr Ward was not altogether compos mentis received a new fillip. We went along to the sheepwash in search of Our Sarah and her gang, for there was no sign of Lionel that morning and this was disappointing, since we had planned to ask him whether he knew of our relatives' visit to the manor house in the hope that he might be able to tell us something about it. However, nobody was at the sheepwash except Mr Ward. He stood up to his thighs in the water, swinging his pickaxe. Water and mud were flying in all directions and he himself was so wet that we could see the sun shining on the drops of water in his hair.

'Down!' whispered Kenneth.

'Where?'

'In the brook. He's got his back to us. Take your shoes off and leave them on the bank.'

'I've got stockings on.'

'They'll soon dry.' So we took off our shoes and waded into the brook where the bank was steepest and peered out at Mr Ward from behind the tall summer grasses. We gained nothing. Mr Ward hacked away with his pickaxe, sending up mud mixed with rainbow spray, then, suddenly, he lofted the pickaxe so that it described an arc before it fell fifteen feet away on to The Marsh. He took out his watch, looked at it, put it back in his pocket, came out of the sheepwash, regained his pickaxe and began to walk towards us.

We crouched down, my frock and Kenneth's shorts getting wetter and wetter, but apparently Mr Ward was unconscious of our presence. To our relief (although I now cannot see that we had anything to fear) he passed by us on the drove road and made his way back to the plank bridge. We gave him a good ten minutes, I should think, before we followed him on to grandfather's land and up to Aunt Kirstie's house for a washing-day dinner.

As usual, Mr Ward did not eat with us. He went up to his room by way of the back stairs, changed his wet clothes and went out again. We were anxious to follow him, but the food-cold roast pork and jacket potatoes-was already on the table, so we sat down quickly to conceal our wet clothes and began our meal.

We always hated washing-day. At home where the scullery in our London house was very small and most of the space was taken up by the copper, the gas-cooker and the sink, it was worse, but even at Aunt Kirstie's the whole of the downstairs smelt of heat and suds and wet clothes and our dinner was plonked down in front of us while Aunt Kirstie, with pink, horrid-looking, water-softened hands, flushed and perspiring brow, untidy hair and sleeves rolled up above her elbows, continued with her rinsing and wringing and Aunt Lally helped her by banging out the clothes on a long line which stretched the whole length of the garden.

We ate our dinner as fast as we could. There were no 'afters' on washing-day unless there was some apple pie or baked rice or bread and butter pudding left over from Sunday, and on this particular Monday there was nothing, although Aunt Kirstie called out that we could have a bit of bread and jam if we liked.

Kenneth, however, was too anxious to put his plan into execution to stop for anything as unexciting as bread and jam, so we put our empty plates together, got the iron bar out of Uncle Arthur's shed the minute the garden was clear of Aunt Lally, and made for the iron fence at the bottom of the hermit's garden.

It was simple enough. Two of the iron uprights of the fence were soon forced apart by our united efforts with the bar and we were able to squeeze through the opening without much trouble, although it was fortunate that we were thin and had narrow heads. The garden was overgrown with tall, rank grass, thistles, docks, nettles and every other kind of weed. There were elder bushes, currant bushes long untended, some raspberry canes and near the back of the cottage a collection of empty tins which seemed to prove that the hermit had eaten other things besides Miss Summers' discarded loaves. At the bottom of the garden there was a doorless, stinking earth-closet and an equally doorless woodshed out of which a rat scurried at our cautious approach.

The back door had gone, as we knew. We stepped inside with caution, listening before we took each forward step, but it was evident the place was still empty. Moreover, again it smelt so fetid and unpleasant that there was no temptation to linger. A doorway separated the kitchen from the front room so, after peering through it at the scene of Mr Ward's labours and noting that his spade and pickaxe had gone, we retired to the back garden to think things over.

'Well I shan't be in a hurry to go in there again,' said Kenneth. 'I shouldn't be surprised if you couldn't catch all sorts of diseases in a place like that. You could even catch the plague, I shouldn't wonder. Rats carry it, you know.'

'Only overseas rats,' I said. 'Did you think Mr Ward had made his hole any bigger?'

'Quite a bit. Deeper, too, from what I could see of it.'

'What about the treasure?'

'He would have found it by now.'

'Unless it's hidden upstairs.'

'Dare you to go up!'

'No dare taken, so fainities.'

'That's for playing "he". It's no good for getting out of a dare.'

'Well, you've got to un-dare me, then.'

'All right. What shall we do now?'

'Make raspberry wine, if Aunt Kirstie will find us two bottles and some sugar.'

'She won't. Don't you remember last year when mine fermented in the night and blew its cork up to the ceiling and all the wine spilt over on to the dressing-table cover? Aunt Lally was furious, not about the dressing-table, but because the noise frightened her so.'

'I expect she thought it was a shot.'

'Oh, no, she must be used to hearing shots. Somebody is always going after rabbits on Lye Hill.'

'The gypsies, I suppose.'

'Shouldn't think so. They don't use guns, they use snares.'

'I wish we could go up Lye Hill. I don't believe the gypsies steal children and sell them as slaves. That's just a story to frighten us.'

'They might kidnap us and hold us to ransom, I suppose.'

'No, they wouldn't. Our relations haven't enough money. They might kidnap Lionel, though. Would you go up Lye Hill and rescue him if they did?'

'No. We'd only get into trouble for going up there when we've been told not to.'

'Well, we're not supposed to play down at the sheepwash, but we do. I vote we go to the sheepwash tomorrow. Mr Ward might be there again, doing his madman act with that pickaxe.'

'Better still, we might meet Old Sukie again. She's my friend. She gave me a paper flower. I want to ask her if she'll tell my fortune.'

'She's a witch, not a fortune-teller. Besides, before they'll tell your fortune you have to cross their palm with silver.'

'What does that mean?'

'I think it means you have to give them two bob. I believe it's the only coin which has a cross on it.'

'I tell you what. I expect she'll have a tent at the fair. It might be cheaper there.'

'But we aren't going to the fair. It's on the day we go home.'

'How do you know?'

'Our Sarah told me when it's held. All the village kids save up all the year for it and do jobs, and all that, to get money to spend. There are swings and roundabouts and coconut shies and hoop-la and shooting galleries and goodness knows what. How I jolly well wish we could go.'

'We wouldn't have much to spend if we did go, so perhaps it's just as well we can't.'

Our Sarah and the gang were down at the sheepwash. There was no sign of Mr Ward and Old Sukie did not come down Lye Hill.

CHAPTER FOUR

TEA-PARTY AND AFTER

We heard no more about the visit Aunt Kirstie and Uncle Arthur had paid to Hill House. We had remarked on the fact that, although Lionel Kempson-Conyers had been twice to tea with us, there had been no reciprocal invitation, yet when it came it found us unprepared and shy. For one thing, it was given in a note from his grandmother, Mrs Kempson herself, and not merely by word of mouth from Lionel. Moreover, it seemed to call for a written answer. Another problem was that of clothes. Lionel was always informally clad when he came down the hill to play with us, but Aunt Lally decided that we must wear our Sunday best if we were going to tea at the manor house.

'But we can't have any fun if Margaret wears her velvet frock and I have to put on a suit,' complained Kenneth. 'I shall ask Lionel what he thinks we ought to wear.'

'If his granny sends a proper invite,' said Aunt Lally, 'it means tea in the drawing-room, and tea in the drawing-room means Sunday clothes.'

'It won't be in the drawing-room,' I said. 'It will be in the nursery or the schoolroom. I've read about it in library books. Rich people's children never have tea in the drawing-room.'

Kenneth and I, who had heard from the village children all about the importance and glory of the manor house, decided that Mrs Kempson wanted to look us over to find out whether, in her opinion, we were suitable companions for her grandson. However, the aunts in conclave decided that it was our grandfather's position as patriarch and part-owner of the village which was responsible for the honour accorded us, and that we must uphold the family dignity, so I wore my green velvet with the real lace collar and Kenneth his best suit and the bow tie he had for Christmas. We felt smart, uncomfortable and apprehensive. We had hoped Lionel would come for us, but we were left to make our own way. It seemed a long trek up the hill, yet, on the other hand, we seemed to get to the manor house long before we felt ready to face the ordeal before us.

I know now that it was a beautiful old house. At the time it merely intimidated me. A long gravel drive bordered by lime trees led up to it and our first problem was whether we ought to seek admittance by the imposing front door or go round to the back.

While we were hesitating, a young man drove up in what would nowadays be a vintage car, but which, at that time, I suppose, was one of the newest models. As he did so, the front door opened and a stately, bald-headed man-servant appeared.

'Oh, Barker, see that they put the car away, will you? I shan't be needing it again today,' said the young man. 'Hullo,' he said to us, 'are you the merchants who kicked off the cartshed roof and tried to drown yourselves in the sheepwash? Good! Come on in.' He led us past the stately butler and we found ourselves in what appeared to me to be a vast, baronial hall. It had a splendid staircase leading up from it and on the wall of the staircase were portraits. It was awe-inspiring and filled me with renewed apprehension.

The stately butler collected the young man's light overcoat and driving gloves and Kenneth's cap. I stood aside and furtively dusted the toes of my shoes against my stockings.

'All right, Barker, we'll show ourselves up,' said the young man. 'How is my mother?'

'You will find the mistress in her usual good health, sir.'

'The people from Paris arrived yet?'

'With Miss Amabel, yes, sir.'

'Good. Well, now, I'm Nigel Kempson. Who are you two?' he said to us. 'I know you're Lionel's friends, but not your names.'

'Margaret and Kenneth Clifton,' I said. We mounted the splendid staircase and at the end of a short landing the young man flung open double doors painted in white and gold and having what I thought at the time were real gold handles, and said,

'What ho, everybody! Hullo, Lionel! I've brought along your companions in crime.'

It was an enormous room which dwarfed the people in it. I was too confused and shy at the moment to tell how many there were, but I know now that there were not more than seven or eight. Old Mrs Kempson was there, seated near an enormous Tudor fireplace in which a very small log fire was burning, and grouped around the room were a number of people of both sexes and of different ages among whom were Lionel's parents (we were told) and his sister. There were other introductions. Nobody shook hands, as we were accustomed to do at home when we met new people, but they nodded kindly and some of them smiled.

The point which immediately struck me was that Aunt Lally had been right about clothes. Lionel was wearing a smart black jacket and beautifully-creased light-grey trousers which made Kenneth's Sunday outfit look low-class and shoddy. He had come forward from his seat on a big leather pouffe as soon as we entered the room. He looked elegant and at ease and seemed like a stranger.

'Hullo,' he said. 'Glad you could come. Grandmamma, this is Margaret and this is Kenneth.'

Mrs Kempson, whom we had sometimes seen in the village, smiled rather frostily at us after Lionel had made the other introductions (with a sang froid which I envied him) and said, graciously grande dame:

'I hear you have been very kind to Lionel.' She then told us to sit on a sofa. A bit later on she said,

'Well, Lionel, you may run along now. You must bring your little friends back here when they are ready to go home at six and they will say goodbye to me.'

So it was schoolroom tea after all, or, rather, it was tea in the housekeeper's room. It was a very good tea, too. There was bloater paste as well as jam, chocolate biscuits and little buns as well as a big plum cake. The housekeeper was an intimidating, unsmiling, elderly little woman, but, having poured out tea and re-filled the pot, she left us to ourselves.

During the meal there was almost no conversation. After a preliminary period during which Kenneth and I ate in our most genteel way, stiffness and formality were abandoned and, without wasting time in talking, we stuffed ourselves with the riches of the loaded table. The housekeeper looked in once or twice, but she said nothing and went away again immediately.

'Well, that's that, then,' said Lionel when, regretfully, we had to admit that we could not manage to eat any more. 'There isn't time to do much, so would you rather come outside or go up and see my playroom?'

'What would we do outside?' asked my brother.

'Nothing, really. There's never anything to do here. We could skate stones on the pond, if you like.'

We opted for the playroom, hoping that he had some good toys and also mindful (at least, I was) that we were wearing our best clothes and that these and a pond might not harmonise. The playroom was at the very top of the house; in fact, it was one of the attics. Lionel's bedroom was next door and opened out of it.

He had not much in the way of toys, but there was a tin roundabout which worked when you wound it up, although the musical-box on it was broken. We played with this and with a few other things such as a humming-top and a small game of skittles. The roundabout, however, reminded me of St Swithin's Fair. I asked Lionel whether he would be going to it.

'When is it?'

'Saturday.'

'Then I won't be able to. It's my sister's birthday party. I don't suppose they'd let me go, anyway.'

'We shan't be going, either,' said Kenneth. 'We go home on Saturday afternoon because our London school starts on Monday, worse luck.'

We had told lies to Our Sarah and the other children about the amount of money we would spend at the fair because we knew the truth would never come out. Of course we had nothing to spend, or so we thought.

'You're going home?' said Lionel. 'Oh, you can't do that! Who shall I have to play with? I'm stuck here for another three weeks.'

'There's your sister's birthday party,' said Kenneth.

'That's no good to me. She's inviting a lot of idiotic girls she used to be at school with, and their brothers, and Nigel's friends. It will be nothing but dancing and charades and all that sort of rot. In fact, I believe there's even some talk of fancy dress.'

'You'll look nice as Little Lord Fauntleroy,' said Kenneth unwisely. I separated them before any damage was done. At six o'clock we went home. Mrs Kempson said we must come again, but I did not think she meant it.

'I feel sorry for Lionel,' said Kenneth, as we walked down the drive and out past the lodge where nobody had lived since the old lodgekeeper died. 'It will be rotten for him when we've gone. Tell you what. Let's leave him the hermit's cottage.'

'Well, don't tell him yet. He blabs, you know, to that uncle. The uncle knew all about us, didn't he?'

'Well, we shan't need the cottage any more after Saturday. When we see him next time, let's swear him to keep it a secret and take him there. After all, that was a jolly decent tea he gave us, better than ours to him.'

'Oh, I don't know. I don't suppose he has kippers for tea up at the house. I believe rich people only eat them for breakfast and rich children wouldn't have them even then, I don't suppose. They only get porridge, I think.'

'Well, we've got to leave the cottage to someone. Even Our Sarah and Our Ern don't go there any more, so they don't know how exciting it's become. Besides, they wouldn't think as much of that grave as Lionel would.'

'All right, then,' I said doubtfully, 'but I expect he'll get into an awful row if he gets his clothes mucked up or takes back fleas or bugs or anything, and then he'd be sure to split and say we took him there.'

'We have never taken home bugs.'

'Only because we're careful never to go near the walls.'

'We could warn him.'

'All right, then, we'll tell him all about it, but only just before we go home.'

* * *

My father was to have come down on Saturday morning to take us back, but there was a surprise because we did not go. It turned out that my mother had had a fall and was in hospital, so on the Thursday there came a letter to ask whether we could stay on for a bit, as my father could not stay away from work to look after us and our little brother Bruce. A neighbour would take on Bruce, but no arrangements could be made about us because no one wanted to look after school-age children, even well-behaved ones.

I suppose we were sorry that mother had to go to hospital, but my first emotion, I am ashamed to say, was one of elation to think that we would be staying on in the village and might even be able to persuade Uncle Arthur to take us to the fair on Saturday after all.

'We still haven't got any money, though,' Kenneth said sadly, 'and a fair isn't any fun at all without money.' It turned out, however, that father had enclosed a postal order with his letter. It was for the princely sum of five shillings (old money) and to us it seemed a fortune. 'There are plenty of things you can have a ride on for twopence,' said Kenneth, 'and Our Ern told me about "a penn'orth on the mat" and that there are two roundabouts, one a penny a go and a little one, with only horses, not cocks and ostriches and things, for only a ha'penny.'

The next thing was to get Uncle Arthur to take us. This he proved willing to do.

'I used to be a devil among the coconuts,' he said, 'and I once got a prize at the shooting gallery. Remember when I laid four coconuts and a china doll in your lap, Kirstie?'

'I remember when you went into that wrestling booth to win five pounds and nearly got your neck broken,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'You were a fool in those days, Arthur.'

'Ah. Pity it wasn't boxing. I'd have won at that,' said Uncle Arthur, not at all put out by her candid criticism.

* * *

'What did you make of Lionel's people?' I asked. It was the morning of the fair, the day we had expected to be going home, so we had to discuss mundane matters in order to cope with our inward excitement. It was like Christmas Eve, but even more so, because we had never been to a fair before.

'Well, we didn't see much of them. I suppose they were all right,' said Kenneth. 'I didn't think much of Lionel's toys. Ours are better.'

'I expect he has others at home. His mother looked rather stuck up. Perhaps she thought we weren't good enough for Lionel. I didn't care for his sister much, either.'

'Was she the one who giggled with the uncle or whatever he is, and didn't take any notice of us? Lionel doesn't like her. He says he wishes she was a brother and would take him fishing. I wonder what her birthday party will be like?'

'Lionel told us. Dancing, and all that, and perhaps fancy dress. Do you really think he'll have to dress up? I bet they'll have jolly good things to eat, anyway,' I said enviously.

'That was a very decent tea that old woman gave us. She looked a bit strict, though. And the servant who took my cap! He picked hold of it as though I'd got nits in my hair.'

'Wonder what Lionel's doing this morning?'

'I expect,' said Kenneth, giggling, 'he's having a special bath and his hair shampooed, ready for the party tonight. Let's go down to the sheepwash and see if Mr Ward's there again. He's a lunatic, must be.'

'We'll have to make sure he doesn't spot us. He's a dangerous lunatic, I'm sure,' I said earnestly.

'Oh, well, it's not as though he knows we know he digs in the hermit's cottage,' said Kenneth. 'We'll have to keep mum about that.'

Down by the brook we found Our Sarah with Our Ern and the rest of the hangers-on. This was surprising, for in Our Sarah's cottage, we knew, Saturday was bedroom day and she was usually kept at home to help turn out the rooms, change the sheets and clean the floors. Bedroom day was an institution among poor families in my childhood, but in London it was usually celebrated on Fridays and the bigger girls were kept away from school regularly on Friday in term-time so that they could help with the chores. In Our Sarah's home, however, bedroom day was on Saturday and she carried out the whole operation on her own, while her mother shopped at the Co-op and her father spent money at the pub.

'Hoy, you young Oi say,' she called out as we approached. 'Where be you a-goen?'

'To the sheepwash,' Kenneth replied.

'You don't warnt to be a-goen there today. You stop along of us and see the band and the percession,' said Our Sarah authoritatively.

'What band?'

'This be 'Orspital Sat'day. They always has it on Saint Swithin's.'

'Are you playing hookey?' asked Kenneth, always bolder at putting direct questions than I was.

'How jer mean?'

'I thought your mother made you work on Saturdays.'

'Us be letten the bedrooms go for thes once. Me dad's en the band.'

'Oh, isn't it the Salvation Army band?'

'No, t'ent, then. 'Tes the town band. They always leads the percession on 'Orspital Sat'day. They haves people dressed up and en masks and they haves boxes what they comes up and rattles at ee, and you puts en an a'penny ef you got one. You got an a'penny, you young Oi say?'

'Yes, but I want it for the fair,' said Kenneth. 'Besides, collections are for grown-ups. They won't expect children to pay.'

So we perched ourselves on the coping of the little bridge which carried the culvert and prepared to watch the procession go by.

'Where ded you get to Wednesday?' asked Our Ern.

'Tea at the manor house.'

'Garn! You never!'

'All right, then. Ask Lionel.'

'What you have for tea?'

'Ordinary bread and butter, currant bread and butter, bloater paste, jam, chocolate biscuits, little jammy buns, plum cake and cups of tea.'

'Garn! Bet ee daren't walk under the bredge,' said Ern, changing the subject. (The culvert under the bridge was no higher than a big drain.)

'I will, if you will,' said Kenneth.

'Garn! Oi done et before. Oi done et a dozen toimes.'

'Oh, yes? You and who else?'

At this moment we heard the sound of the approaching band and I hoped this would deter Kenneth, but it did not. He slid down the bank and waded into the brook. I went to the end of the bridge where he would emerge and waited anxiously. It did not take him long, but I thought he looked very pale when he climbed out and his shorts were soaked to the top of his thighs.

'There you are, then,' he said, walking up to Ern. 'And now you can have this.' With this remark he uppercut Ern and knocked him backwards into the brook. I prepared to take Kenneth's side if Our Sarah decided to intervene, but when Ern crawled out and began to blubber, all she said was:

'Serve ee glad for tellen loies. You never walked under there in your loife. He be twoice the man what you be. Hold yer howlen. Here 'em comes.'

We did not know Sarah's father, so could not pick him out from among the other bandsmen, but we yelled and clapped and Sarah and Ern (who was wet and muddy, but had taken his sister's advice and stopped howling) fell in behind the band, which already had a following of children.

'Come on,' said Kenneth; but I hung back and even retreated on to The Marsh. Not many things frightened me, but people wearing masks always did and still do. There was not much in the way of a procession except for a set of Morris dancers whose caperings did not fit in with the tune the band was playing. There were, however, a dozen or more creatures in the most terrifying get-up I had ever seen except in pictures. They were prehistoric animals, dinosaurs, I suppose, and they looked like demented crocodiles or the sort of giant lizards you might see in a nightmare.

Attached to their claws were collecting-boxes made of tin which they rattled as they pranced along behind the Morris dancers and the band. Although they were nightmarish, they were horribly realistic, too; nothing like the things which can be made nowadays for such films as the Argonauts and Sinbad the Sailor, of course, but dreadfully frightening, all the same. When they came up close and shook their collecting boxes, some people, I am sure, hastily dropped coppers into the rattling tins just to get rid of them.

Personally, I let them go by before I followed on and then I walked very slowly, so that by the time I reached Aunt Kirstie's gate the band, the dancers and the masked importunists were away up the hill and the music was almost inaudible.

They're going up to the manor house,' said Kenneth, 'but Aunt Kirstie says they may be coming back this way. The collectors are medical students. Aren't they grand? They're prehistoric animals, you know. I wish I had a costume like that. Why didn't you come along? One of them picked me up and pretended to bite my head off. It was grand. Some of the women screamed. It was terrific'

'I want my dinner,' I said, 'so I shan't bother to go to the front gate if they do come back this way.' Nothing, I felt, would induce me to encounter those fearsome beings again, and that was before we heard about the murder.

CHAPTER FIVE

MRS KEMPSON PUTS PEN TO PAPER

I am sure of my facts, dear Mrs Bradley. I can assure you of that. I have kept a journal ever since the death of my husband and it is to that which I have referred in beginning this statement to you. The particulars are as concise but, I hope, as complete as it is possible for me to make them. I realise that you have many commitments, but I shall be immensely relieved when you are free to take my brother as your patient. His conduct has become most disquieting and I am in urgent need of professional assistance in determining what is best to be done, both in his interests and my own.

The death of my husband did not, in itself, sadden me. His last illness was prolonged and very distressing, and the termination of his life some ten years ago was a blessed relief to both of us. It was then, as I say, that I took to keeping a journal. It filled a gap and helped to pass a somewhat lonely existence. My only child, a girl, is married and lives mostly abroad, as her husband is attached to one of our embassies. She has two children, Amabel (now at finishing school in Paris) and a young son Lionel, still at his preparatory school.

Sometimes the children come to me for a week or two during the summer, but otherwise my life is lonely and not very interesting, as my only other close relation is my brother Ward, the subject of this analysis. I should add that I have an adopted son, Nigel, but the adoption is not a legal one and there is no question of Nigel's having any claim on me or on the estate. He is supposed to be the son (illegitimate, I fancy) of an actor-manager for whom my late husband, a very wealthy man (fortunately for me!), once acted as an angel-for so, I believe, they call the backers of theatrical enterprises. Nigel's mother, I feel sure, was the leading lady in the production financed by my husband. It sometimes crosses my mind that Nigel may even be the illegitimate son of my husband himself and this actress, as so much was done in putting him to public school and university and then finding him a well-paid sinecure of a job in London with a firm in which my husband had a controlling interest. My husband, in fact, sometimes urged that we should take out adoption papers, but this was a course I steadfastly opposed, as I felt that it was against my daughter's interests.

However, Nigel has always treated Hill House as his home and has proved himself the dearest and most considerate of boys. Nevertheless, I cannot sufficiently stress that there is no consanguinity between us and that he has no claim on anything but my sincere affection. Unfortunately, since he left College and took a flat in London to be near his work, I have seen all too little of him. We meet almost as strangers until the ice is broken by our very real affection for one another, but, even so, his visits come all too seldom.

In view of what I have to tell you, it is necessary to stress the fact that not only has Nigel no claim upon me, but that he has known, ever since he left College, that he has few expectations from me. He has accepted this. He knows that the estate must go to little Lionel and that a great deal of money is needed to keep it up.

Apart from my husband's last illness, I have had only one major anxiety in my life and that, as you will have guessed, is the conduct of my brother Ward. He was always an ill-behaved, malicious child and his way of life did not improve as he grew older. After he had been expelled from two schools the only institution which would accept him as a pupil was a seminary run by the Jesuits. From this he absconded and the next we heard of him was from Canada.

Years passed and my father died. This meant that, as this estate is entailed in the male line, Ward was entitled to inherit. The lawyers made efforts to trace him, but without success. More time went by and then a letter came from New York State to say that Ward had spent fifteen years in an American prison, was released, but destitute, and wanted his fare paid so that he could come home. He promised to behave himself if my parents would have him back. Of course, by that time both were dead and my husband, too. I was living here in my old home and the very last thing I wanted was to have Ward on my hands, so I did not answer the letter. This was several years ago.

The next thing was another letter, this from an unknown woman in New York, to say that she had heard from a reliable source that my wretched brother was dead. She said that she had been living with him and keeping him before he quarrelled with her and left her, but she had found my address among some effects he had left behind him when they parted. In view of this, I saw no reason for not staying on in this house, which, after all, was my girlhood home, looking after the place and acting (since his parents were abroad) as caretaker for little Lionel who, so far as I knew, would inherit as soon as he came of age. The woman made no mention in her letter of marriage or of children, so, naturally, I assumed that, with Ward dead, Lionel would be the heir.

Imagine my horror, therefore, dear Mrs Bradley, when, a year later, I received a visit from an individual who claimed to be my brother. I was writing a letter to my daughter at the time, I remember, when Barker announced that a person named Ward had called and was asking to see me.

'Ward?' I said. 'Surely not!'

That, madam, is the name the individual gave.'

'What kind of person is he?'

'I could not take it upon myself to say, madam.'

I knew, by this answer, that, in Barker's opinion, the caller was not what he would have described as a gentleman and yet was someone of indeterminate status who might, after all, warrant being shown into my presence.

'Very well,' I said. 'I will see him.'

'In here, madam?'

'No. Show him into the library.' I finished my letter before I went down and then I made as impressive an entrance as I could. A middle-aged man in a suit which was obviously readymade came towards me with the intention, it seemed, of embracing me. I noticed that he was wearing gloves, I suppose to hide his prison-calloused hands, and was also wearing pince-nez.

'Good afternoon,' I said, in my most formal tones. 'You wish to speak to me? Are you one of the tenants?' (I knew, of course, that he was not.)

'I'm the one and only tenant, my dear sister,' he replied. 'I'm your brother. The black sheep returns to the fold.'

'I have no brother,' I said. 'My only brother died in New York more than a year ago.'

'I can produce proofs of my identity, you know,' he said, 'proofs which I think a lawyer would accept, even if you will not.' He smirked and brushed his untidy moustache.

'Produce them, then,' I said. 'Meanwhile, perhaps you will be good enough to leave my house.'

'Your house?' he said. I rang for Barker to show him out. He went without any fuss and the next thing was a letter from our family lawyers. A man had been to see them claiming that he was my brother and heir to the estate.

'As you will know,' the letter said, 'the estate was entailed several generations ago and the entail has never been revoked. The man we interviewed has produced certain proofs of identity which could form the basis of long and expensive litigation should you decide to contest his claim in favour of your grandson, the apparent heir to the estate. We are of the opinion that in all likelihood the man is an impudent impostor, but proving this might be a matter of extreme difficulty in view of the papers in his possession and what appears to be his extensive knowledge of the family history. We await your further instructions.'

I was in a quandary, so I wrote back to the lawyers and asked their advice, but they merely reiterated that, in their opinion, I might find litigation both lengthy and expensive, with no certainty at the end that I should win my case. Then Ward came to see me again. I told him that he could not prove he was my brother. He replied that I would have infinite trouble proving that he was not.

'Look,' he said, 'I have reformed, I can assure you of that. I shan't be any trouble to you. All I want is an allowance and a home. I need not live here. You would not want that. If you will find me somewhere respectable and quiet and give the ten pounds a week, I'll trouble you no further and I won't even visit you any more. Come, Emilia, what do you say?'

'If you really are my brother, go ahead and claim your inheritance,' I said.

'Oh, the estate brings in little or nothing. I know that,' he said. 'Even if I had it, I could not afford to keep up the house and pay the servants. Why not make the best of a bad job and do as I suggest? It will save both of us trouble and you a great deal of money. You don't really want to go to law, you know.'

'What makes you think I can afford to pay you ten pounds a week?' I asked.

'Oh, I know our parents left very little, but you must be very well off since your husband died,' he answered.

'Be that as it may,' I said, 'it can hardly concern anybody but my heirs, and you can hardly expect to be one of those.'

'Oh, I don't, I don't, my dear sister,' he declared. 'I know that you have an adopted son. I suppose he will be the chief beneficiary.'

'You seem to have interested yourself vastly in my affairs,' I said angrily. 'However, since it seems just as well to clear the matter up between us once and for all, I may as well tell you that my adopted son, as you call him, has no claim on me whatever and he knows it. I do not say I shall leave him nothing. I am very fond of him. However, it will not and cannot be anything at all substantial because I have a duty to others bound to me by ties of blood; others whom my dear husband made me promise, before he died, that I would benefit.' (This, I confess, Mrs Bradley, was not quite true!) I went on:

'You rightly point out that most of what I have was left to me by him and my conscience would not permit me to dispose of it against his wishes. He was particularly anxious that not more than five thousand should go to Nigel. The boy is not of our kin and we have done much to further his interests, first my husband and now myself. The bulk of the money will go to my grandson.'

'And I am to get nothing? Oh, well, I did not expect very much. You could spare me fifty a month and not miss it, though, couldn't you, dear sister, if only for old times' sake?' he suggested.

'I have no pleasant memories of old times, so far as you are concerned,' I said.

'Will you do nothing for me? After all, I am prepared to give up all claim to the estate. That ought to be worth a modest thirty thousand pounds at your death. I should not expect to claim it before that.'

'Thirty thousand pounds?'

'Left to me in your will.' He paused and then said, astonishingly, 'You can add a clause specifying that I get it provided you die a natural death, of course.'

'I will talk it over with Nigel,' I said feebly. 'Meanwhile I will pay you five pounds a week and will make myself responsible for your board and lodging, but only on condition that you sign an undertaking not to molest me and not to make any further demands upon my purse.'

'Except for the thirty thousand, dear sister. That is my condition and the only one on which I shall accept your terms. Otherwise I'm out to make trouble,' he said. 'The estate is mine, and you know it. I could turn you out of this house tomorrow if I chose, and as for your dependents, whoever they are-you have children and grandchildren, I dare say-well, they can go hang, so far as I'm concerned. If you won't meet my terms, I'll damn well get a son of my own-I'm not past doing that, you know-so I advise you to think it over.'

Well, dear Mrs Bradley, I agreed to his terms, whether wisely or not I hardly know. The thirty thousand will still leave plenty for little Lionel and I am leaving only five thousand to Nigel, as he knows. My lawyers are not very happy about the arrangements, but since Ward is prepared to give up all claim to the estate I feel that he is entitled to some benefit. He now lodges with a most respectable couple in the village here. The wife's father is a substantial man and the couple have a very good house for such people. They let Ward have two upstairs rooms and his food, for all of which I pay, and until recently I had had no complaints from them about his behaviour.

To make certain that the Landgraves received their money I should much have preferred that Nigel should ride down the hill and deliver it to them personally in a sealed envelope containing coin of the realm, but Nigel lives in London, so now one of the servants takes it. The rest of the allowance, the five pounds a week remittance, I send Ward monthly in the form of money orders which he cashes at the village post-office and spends mostly, I believe, at the public house.

The first inkling I had that matters are no longer quite what they ought to be came in the form of a letter from Mrs Landgrave. It was very well put together, but I believe her education was superior to that of her husband, although I believe him to be a good sort of man in his way, sober and respectable, I mean. Well, in the letter Mrs Landgrave informed me that, while she had no wish to complain, they had become worried about certain changes in the conduct of 'Mr' Ward.

'He has always liked digging,' she wrote. 'At first he dug in the bit of our garden we let him have, but now he has dug up and destroyed all my husband's gladdies.' (Gladioli I suppose she meant.) Then he got into my father's chicken run,' she went on, 'and began to dig there. He said he was digging for buried treasure, which did not seem to us very likely. His latest has been to go digging on The Marsh and I think he must have been in the sheepwash, for he came back wet through, right to his hair, and plastered in mud, so we would be much obliged if you would see into things, as it does not seem very sensible behaviour, but more like a child or somebody not quite right in the head. I should tell you that he has also bought himself a pickaxe, which I don't see he can find any proper use for, as well as a new and heavy spade to dig with.'

When the groom took the next week's rent for Ward's rooms and food, I enclosed a note to ask the woman and her husband to come up and see me, for Mrs Landgrave's letter convinced me that they had reason for complaint. Nobody wants to give house-room to a madman.

Apart from that, the news disquieted me for two other reasons. As a young man, my brother had been in trouble for trying to dig up corpses in a churchyard. He said he wanted to raise the devil and that a corpse was needed for this. The other point was that the Landgraves' story has helped to convince me that Ward really is my brother and, as such, has a right to more than his board, lodging and pocket-money, as Nigel and I agreed. It is true that the estate eats up more than it brings in, nevertheless, although the heir cannot sell or otherwise dispose of it, there is nothing to prevent him from developing the place, say, as a guest-house or private hotel.

The grounds, too-they are extensive and the soil is fertile-could be developed agriculturally and made to pay, and there is a large covered market in the nearby town which I am sure could and would take the produce.

However, if Ward has become mentally unstable, as the Landgraves' evidence, given factually and without any show of indignation which, under the circumstances, I could scarcely have quibbled at, most definitely suggests, any attempt on his part at running the estate as a business proposition would be out of the question.

Another complication mentioned by Mrs Landgrave is that she has two young children staying next door with the grandfather and a widowed sister and taking all their meals with the Landgraves. This brings them into daily contact with Ward, so the Landgraves feel a natural anxiety on their account if Ward is becoming what they termed at our interview as 'peculiar'. Incidentally, as Lionel has struck up an acquaintance with these children, I am anxious on his behalf also. I have met the little pair and they seem well-mannered and intelligent and speak better than the village children do. I would not wish (apart from offending the Landgraves, on whose goodwill I am dependent) to forbid Lionel to go down to the village, but if Ward's mind is defective I wonder how safe my little grandson will be if Ward discovers (as well he may, for you know how children chatter) that he is Ward's dispossessor.

Ward has said that he does not want the property, but that was five years ago when I am sure that he was of sound mind. In view of what the Landgraves have told me, I am not able to adhere to that conviction. I am writing to say that I think the first step is for him to see a reputable psychiatrist. I shall be glad and relieved to welcome you to Hill House, therefore, at your very earliest convenience. I trust that, from what I have told you in this letter, you will appreciate that it will not be possible-practicable, perhaps I should say-to bring the patient to your London clinic.

You may still wonder why I gave in to Ward's demands. Of course I would have fought him on the occasion of his first visit to myself and my lawyers, in spite of advice that the odds were against me, for I am not the person to give in at all easily, but the fact is that there was something about his voice and manner-although not in his appearance-which made me almost certain that he was speaking the truth in claiming to be my brother. There was only a faint doubt in my mind. Something in me reached out to something in him, some fugitive memory, I suppose, of our childhood together, although I cannot remember ever really liking him.

I have, as I say, given in about the thirty thousand to be paid him at my death. I still feel that he ought to be compensated for giving up the estate and even with that substantial bite out of my fortune there will still be plenty left, as I say, for little Lionel. However, I have no intention of leaving thirty thousand pounds to a madman. I have discussed matters with Nigel by letter and he fully agrees with me that we should send for a psychiatrist, so do please come soon.

CHAPTER SIX

ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR

The fair had its roots in the dim and distant Middle Ages, but the only remaining vestiges of its original function, which was annual trading in goods brought by merchants from miles around and even from foreign parts, were the small booths and stalls on the outskirts of the space occupied by roundabouts and swings and all the other exciting and noisy pleasures on which most of the people (and especially the children) had come to spend their money.

Kenneth and I were in a fever all day. We had hoped to set off immediately after breakfast and spend the whole day at the fair, but Uncle Arthur thought otherwise. After tea was the time to go, he said, so Aunt Kirstie made us rest after the mid-day dinner and when, at last, we were ready to set off, she made us wear our overcoats and told Uncle Arthur on no account to keep us out late.

It was a long way to the bus stop and a long way from the bus terminus to the fair, or so it seemed to me at the age of ten. However, we could hear the raucous music as soon as we turned into Broad Street and I know our steps quickened at the sound of it.

St Swithin's Fair had nothing to do with St Swithin's legendary rain-making. It was so called because it was held in St Swithin's market-place, a large open square behind the covered market where we were taken for an occasional treat to eat Tardy-cakes and look at the puppies, kittens, cage-birds, Angora rabbits, Belgian hares and Flemish giants in the petshop. I can still remember the mingled odours and scents of the covered market-the sour smells of small animals, the heavenly smells of baking, flowers and fruit, the sweaty smell of people and the moist, earthy smell of freshly-watered ferns and plants in pots.

The fair was entirely different from the covered market. It was far more exciting. At any rate, it wildly excited Kenneth and me. We had expected much, but I am bound to say that St Swithin's Fair was no disappointment. Looking back now, after all these years, I realise that few things to which young children (after all, I was only ten years old and Kenneth eight) look forward, do turn out to be disappointing. Youthful imagination coupled with a desperate desire for wish-fulfilment sees to that, and therefore St Swithin's Fair stands out in my mind as one of the high spots in a moderately happy life. We did not need to seek for any kind of compensation. We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

For one thing, Uncle Arthur was to our minds an ideal companion, an easy-going, simple-minded, very indulgent sort of man. He was not native to the village, but came of Cockney ancestors. His mother was a virago who was accustomed literally to throw her husband and sons into the street when they came home drunk, and she had bestowed her thews and sinews and her generous, single-minded outlook, but not her flaming temper, upon Uncle Arthur. He had boxed in the East End for small purses, so was technically a professional, but he was a kindly man who lacked the killer instinct which brings a boxer fame and the big money.

At the fair he soon gave a taste of his muscular quality. He banged with a mallet on a sort of anvil and a weight shot up and rang a bell. He was given a cigar for that. Then he smashed a coconut and was given a whole one in exchange. We were thrilled and delighted, so much so that 'a penn'orth on the mat,' which he urged us to try, made me forget my fears of this sort of feat. I cascaded round the bends with some enjoyment and returned slightly dizzy but undoubtedly triumphant to Kenneth and Uncle Arthur after I and my mat had been fielded by a sweating man in a dirty singlet who stood at the foot of the tower.

After all these years, some of my impressions of the fair are rather blurred, like the reflections of brilliant lights on wet pavements while the rain is still pouring down. I remember that, although it was not yet dark when we arrived, the naked naphtha flares which lit up the scene were already hissing and windblown. I remember the jostling, shoving, good-humoured crowds, the gaily-painted swing-boats, and the raucous, heady, intoxicating music blaring from the roundabouts.

I remember that I nearly (but not quite) ringed a most desirable box of chocolates at the hoop-la stall and that Kenneth tried his luck with an airgun but failed to hit one of the ping-pong balls which were dancing up and down on jets of water, and I remember arguing with him as to whether or not you got a longer ride on the roundabout by taking one of the outside horses rather than one nearer the centre where the machinery and the music were.

'It stands to reason,' he said. 'It's a case of concentric circles. The outside one has the longest perimeter.'

'But it travels slower,' I said, 'so the actual length of the ride is the same.'

We tried a swing-boat with Uncle Arthur at one end and the two of us at the other. I did not like this very much because, as the boat swung higher, it seemed quite possible that at a certain point we could go clean over the top and loop the loop, so I was relieved when our time was up and the man in charge grounded us with a long wooden plank which jarred the boat uncomfortably and alarmingly but soon brought us to a standstill.

Uncle Arthur bought us bullseyes, brandy snaps and lardy-cakes and we drank so-called lemonade. Later on we had sausage rolls and ice cream. (Ice cream was a rare treat in those days and we seldom bought it for ourselves because it disappeared so quickly.) Soon after this, a clock on St Swithin's church struck ten and Uncle Arthur decided that it was time to think about going home.

We pleaded that there were several alleyways among the stalls which, so far, we had not explored and Kenneth (always much more generous and thoughtful than myself) said that he wanted to buy a present for Aunt Kirstie but had not seen anything he fancied she would like.

In one of the quieter by-ways there were stalls selling fancy goods such as sachets of lavender, garish pincushions covered in bead-work, boxes ornamented with sea-shells, fancy handkerchiefs and brightly-coloured hair-ribbons. The prices seemed high, so Kenneth and I (rather grudgingly on my part, I must admit) went shares in a pale-blue handkerchief which had a knot of pink flowers in one corner surrounding the letter K. Uncle Arthur put it in his pocket so that we should not lose it and a moment or so later we found ourselves on the edge of the fairground opposite a large marquee.

Behind it a narrow thoroughfare had been left so that traffic could still flow. On the other side of the thoroughfare was a pavement for foot-passengers and abutting on to this stood one of the several pubs which supplied the farmers and their men with food and beer on market days.

Outside the marquee a large board lit by two swinging lanterns on iron uprights advertised that there was a prize of five pounds for anyone who could wrestle successfully for five minutes against Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith using catch-as-catch-can, Cornish style, Westmorland style, Japanese or lumberjack style, no holds barred, admission sixpence. Exhibition bouts would take place between challengers' efforts, it stated. It concluded, Roll up, roll up! All the fun of the fair.

Beside the board, vociferating at the top of his lungs, stood a fat man in a tight-fitting evening suit which had seen better days. For the benefit, apparently of those who could not read, he was declaiming the information printed on the board and emphasising the importance of the prize.

As we paused to watch and listen, a group of young men, noisy and somewhat drunk, came out of the public house and, after some bucolic argument punctuated by laughter and a few slurred oaths, they paid their sixpences and entered the marquee.

'Well now,' said Uncle Arthur, 'time we looked for that bus.' But he seemed in no hurry to move on, and while we waited and Kenneth squeezed my arm hopefully, several other customers went in to see the show. The busker outside redoubled his efforts and added to his repertoire.

'Roll up! Roll up! Only a few seats left. Roll up! Here's your chance! Five lovely thick uns to the winner. Roll up, gen'lemen sportsmen.' Then his eye picked us out although we stood in the gloom. 'Ladies and children half price,' he bellowed. 'Don't miss an educational treat! See the greatest wrestler on earth! Try your luck for five beautiful nicker! Come on! Roll up! Roll up! Next exhibition bout in a coupla minutes from Now.'

Two or three more men went in. I could tell that Kenneth was in agony lest all the seats should be gone before Uncle Arthur had made up his obviously vacillating mind.

'Couldn't we just pop in, Uncle?' he said at last. 'It's only threepence for children and I've got that left. Couldn't we?'

'Oh, it's not for children,' said Uncle Arthur, but he still lingered.

'The man said it was educational, and it's only wrestling. It's not as though they're going to knock each other out,' I said.

'Wrestling's worse nor boxing,' said Uncle Arthur. 'Oh, well, all right, just for a few minutes, then.' Kenneth darted for the tent-flap, his threepence already in his hand, and Uncle Arthur and I followed. The marquee was full of noise, tobacco smoke and the smell of sweaty, beery men. There were still a number of unoccupied backless wooden benches. We sat down, Kenneth in the gangway seat, myself next to him and Uncle Arthur between me and a sleazy drunk who was singing sadly to himself and hiccupping now and then.

Instead of the usual ring, there was a stage, a small, square platform covered with coarse green matting. Some wooden steps led up to this from the auditorium. The fat man mounted these and announced in a voice gone husky from his previous open-air efforts:

'Presentin' a three-round, catch-as-catch-can exhibition contest between, on my right, Jacques Collins, on my left, Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith. Gen'lemen will kindly stop smokin' while this important exhibition bout is in progress.'

No notice whatever was taken of this suggestion. He retired and the two wrestlers rose from the knees of their seconds, who had been kneeling on one knee and accommodating their principals on the other thigh.

The Tiger-Cat was lean and had black hair, long legs and thin, muscular arms. He was dressed in a black, long-sleeved vest and black tights. His opponent was shorter and more thick-set, with a bulging bull-neck and an eyebrow-length fringe of red hair. He wore sky-blue breeches which fastened under the knee; his chest, except for a menacing tangle of red hair, was bare to the waist. The two men advanced to the centre of the stage and danced about in a manner which was obviously only for show and hardly looked like business. Some of the audience lit such clay pipes as had gone out or any noisome cigars they had won at the fair. Others got out cheap cigarettes abstracted from battered packets, and we all settled down to enjoy the fun.

There was one more announcement before the exhibition bout really got under way.

'You are advised, gen'lemen sportsmen,' bellowed the fat man, advancing to the top of the steps again, 'to study the contest closely so as to pick up pointers as to FORM. The gen'lemen sportsmen contestants for our prize-money of five pounds will be matched against the loser of this exhibition contest. The loser, not the winner, gen'lemen sportsmen. Thank you.'

He then retreated to the centre of the stage and the contestants went back to their corners, but not to the knees of their seconds, for these had retired. Somebody rang a bell, the fat man (who was going to referee the bout) skipped out of the way and the wrestlers, bending forward from the waist, held their hands and arms at the ready as they began to circle round one another, looking for a hold.

The contest enthralled me, although Uncle Arthur muttered that it was rigged and that the winner knew he was booked to win and the loser knew he was to lose, and both knew exactly when the dénouement would come and the lambs (if any) among the audience be enticed to the slaughter. Tor there won't be no five-pound given, you can bet your bottom dollar,' said our cynical but knowledgeable uncle.

The contestants circled, feinted, rolled together on the matting, grunted, clutched and appeared to do everything short of strangling one another. The audience shouted and stamped and the affair went three rounds, but even by the end of the second round the thin fellow appeared to be getting the worst of it. At the beginning of the fourth round it was all over, and in the most sensational manner. The bulkier man suddenly, thrillingly and theatrically caught up his opponent bodily and literally flung him into the auditorium, where, true to his tiger-cat title, he landed miraculously on his feet in the clear space between the front of the stage and the first row of the backless benches. He climbed back on to the stage, shook his head as his opponent came forward and slouched off into the wings.

The victor bowed to the sporadic applause and the fat impresario came to the front of the stage again.

'See 'ow easy, gen'lemen sportsmen! Who's for winnin' five pounds? Don't all roll up at once. Come on, now. Who's goin' to try his luck? We'll just give the Cat time to get his breath back, and then...' Before he had time to finish, a thickset young countryman, propelled by the willing hands of his friends, was thrust, stumbling and protesting, to the foot of the wooden steps. The fat man stretched out a welcoming hand. 'Good for you, sir,' he said, as the youth was pulled and pushed up on to the stage.

There were preliminaries. The lad was taken behind the scenes and re-appeared, looking sheepish, stripped to his shirt, trousers and socks. Then the Tiger-Cat came on and they shook hands.

'Go it, Breezer!' shouted those in the audience who knew the unwilling challenger.

'Go it, Tiger-Cat!' yelled Kenneth, springing to his feet and leaping into the gangway.

'Interducin' Breezer Ben Trucket,' bellowed the fat man. 'Challengin' Tiger-Cat Bellamy Smith for the MAGNIFICENT purse of five jimmy o' goblins! Place your bets, gen'lemen sportsmen. Who'll have half-a-dollar on the Breezer?'

'Dollar and an'arf on the Cat,' shouted a voice from the back. The fat man smiled indulgently, shook his head, thanked the audience for their kind appreciation and gave a signal. A bell rang and the contest was on.

'Uncle Arthur,' I remember saying, 'has the Tiger-Cat changed his suit? He looks all shiny.'

'Greased all over,' Uncle Arthur replied. 'It's an old trick. That lad won't ever get a grip of him.'

The drunk, who had managed to get up, must have overheard this. Having risen to his feet, he wobbled uncertainly, supported himself by holding on to the shoulders of a small man in the row in front, gave a terrific belch and shouted out:

'He'sh oiled! The Cat'sh oiled! Drown that (hic!) Cat. He'sh oiled!'

'You're oiled!' called out someone near the front, turning round.

'Siddown, yer fool!' shouted others.

'Gen'lemen, please!' yelled the fat man, advancing once again to the front of the stage. 'Keep your seats, gen'lemen, please! Kindly keep your SEATS!'

At this critical moment the Tiger-Cat elected to become tactless. He abandoned the dodging and feinting with which he had been lulling the audience into a hope that Breezer Ben, the pride of whatever Oxfordshire village he came from, might actually win the five-pound prize, lifted him into the air, flung him down and appeared to jump on him. Ben forgot his manhood and gave a boyish squeal of agony. At this, his friends, who numbered at least half a dozen, most of them more than half-drunk, rushed the platform, knocking the fat man down.

The rest of the audience reacted according to their various natures. Some yelled, 'Siddown!' Others stamped on the ground and whistled through their fingers. One or two made for the exit. A tall, dark woman in the front row darted up the steps on to the platform and flung herself into the fray on behalf of the Tiger-Cat, who looked (grease or no grease) as though he was going to take a dreadful bashing from Ben's infuriated friends. The seconds rushed in and what Kipling would have called 'a melee of a sumptuous kind' ensued, with the dark woman in the thick of it.

Kenneth, still in the gangway, suddenly shrieked, 'It's Sukie! Leave her alone! Leave her alone, you beasts!' He ran towards the flight of steps. Uncle Arthur shoved me backwards, pushed past me and tore after him. A few moments later, with Kenneth tucked ignominiously under Uncle Arthur's arm and with myself in frightened but, all the same, unwilling tow, we left the now seething marquee and were just in time to see a couple of policemen approaching it. At the same moment Sukie and the Tiger-Cat crawled out from between two of the tent-pegs, spotted the policemen and snaked off into the gloom beyond the public house just as St Swithin's clock chimed the three-quarters to eleven.

* * *

We had much to tell Aunt Kirstie when we got home, but as soon as she had given us cocoa and biscuits she took us straight over, in the midst of our excited babbling, to Aunt Lally, who said,

'Well, I declare, Kirstie! Keeping them out till all hours and me out of my bed! Arthur ought to be ashamed of himself! Their grandfather went upstairs an hour or more ago, and what he'll say to them in the morning I don't know!'

The fair comes only once a year and the bus before the last one didn't run, and the last was late,' said Aunt Kirstie, who never objected to telling any lies which seemed likely to improve a difficult situation. 'Besides, I kept 'em to give 'em a cup of cocoa and a biscuit to save you the trouble, so they can go straight up to bed.'

We made no objection to this, for, what with the unprecedentedly late hour and the unusual amount of excitement, we were tired out. Kenneth, in fact, had slept on Uncle Arthur's shoulder all the way home in the bus and both of us had found the long walk home from the bus stop infinitely tedious and fatiguing.

In the morning Kenneth said, 'Did you notice his ear was bleeding?'

'Whose?'

'The gypsy man, the Tiger-Cat. He's her man, you know. Her husband, or whatever it is. They don't get married properly, only over the tongs, but it's the same thing. I mean, they are allowed to have children, and all that.'

I changed the subject back again, as being more interesting.

'How do you know his ear was bleeding?'

'Saw it as they passed the pub lights. He mopped it and the bit of rag was all dark. Somebody in that fight must have pulled his earring out.'

'Did he have an earring?'

'Yes, of course. All gypsies have them. Besides, I saw how the light caught it when that first chap chucked him off the stage. I say, it was a pretty good show, wasn't it? Wonder whether Uncle Arthur has left us anything on their bedroom table?'

'We didn't ought to expect anything,' I said, 'not after him paying for all he did at the fair.'

But the Sunday morning treat was there as usual, this time in the form of chocolate cream rabbits.

'You didn't have your Saturday bath,' said Aunt Kirstie, 'and I can't give it you now with Sunday dinner to cook, and your uncle's taken the dogs out looking for Mr Ward. He never came home last night or the night before.'

CHAPTER SEVEN

MARGARET, KENNETH AND LIONEL

To our disgust, on the day after the fair we were pressurised into going to Sunday school again, but when we got there we found there were great compensations. The air was full of rumour and surmise, so much so that other children, including Our Sarah and her brother Ern, who, like ourselves, were not Sunday school minded, had turned up in force to share in the gossip and speculate upon the happenings of the previous night.

Owing to our late bedtime following our outing to the fair, it had been supposed that we would have what the aunts called 'a long lie-in' on Sunday morning, but we had been too anxious to find out what little treat, if any, was waiting for us on Aunt Kirstie's bedside table to waste time in bed. It was as we were rejoicing over the chocolate cream rabbits and digesting the information that Uncle Arthur and the whippets were out looking for Mr Ward, that the blow (as we thought it at the time) had fallen. It was Aunt Lally's doing, of course. She came over to Aunt Kirstie's to tell us to change our clothes.

'So you'll be going to Sunday school,' said Aunt Kirstie. 'Better you'd have stayed in bed until it was too late to send you, but, one way and another, Lally's right. Today you'd best be kept out of mischief and Sunday school's one way of doing it, seems to me.'

'But, Aunt Kirstie, we never get into mischief,' said Kenneth, who could usually wheedle her into letting him have his own way.

'Oh, no?' said Aunt Lally. 'Let me tell you your grandpa has seen the way them bars is prised apart in that there fence at the bottom of that old garden, so best you keep clear of him for a bit unless you wants to tell him a lot of wicked lies.' She took us back with her, and off to Sunday school we were sent. In front of the building, the old drill hall, there was a broad space of gravel and on this were assembled all the children of the village and even one or two loutish youths. Few wanted to attend Sunday school. Most wanted to listen to, augment and further spread the news of what came to be known as 'the sheepwash murder'.

We joined Our Sarah's faithful group and listened, horrified and ghoulishly excited, to her narrative. As we had come in halfway through it, Kenneth plucked up courage to say, at the first opportunity,

'Please, Our Sarah, do begin again. We've only just come, and we've got some news, too.'

'You 'ave, you young Oi say? Out weth et, then, else Oi ent agoen' to tell ee no then.'

'Well, if there's been a murder, like you say, perhaps our Mr Ward did it.'

'Mester Ward? What, that old codger what leve weth your auntie? How jer know?'

'We don't know, but he's disappeared, so, if there's been a murder, he may be running away from the police.'

'Well, Oi never!'

'So please begin at the beginning and don't leave anything out.'

'Well,' began Our Sarah, nothing loth, it seemed, to repeat her effects in front of an audience still further augmented by a couple of our cousins, Uncle George's boy and girl, 'Oi goes down to the sheepwash thes mornen a-chasen after two lettle uns as was warnted to be cleaned up for Sunday, our young Bert 'aven shet hes bretches and dodgen off not to get an 'oiden from our dad what had an 'ead on hem after the bandsmen's booze-up yesterday folleren the percession and that, when what does Oi foind?'

'You foinds a p'liceman down the sheepwash,' replied a respectful voice from among her audience.

'Roight ee are. Oi foinds a p'liceman. And what else does Oi foind?'

'You foinds as the sheepwash and all about and around es railed off weth stakes and a lot of theck rope so's nobody can't get near et,' said another voice.

'So what does Oi do?'

'You asks the p'liceman ef he's seed your lettle neppers.'

'Roight again. So he says no and to keep 'em away and any other cheldren, too, 'cos et's no place for cheldren and the p'lice has their orders and to hop et. So what does Oi say to that?'

'You says, "Oo's ben murdered, then?"'

'And what do he say?'

'He says, "What do you know about et?"'

'So Oi says, "You tell me and Oi'll tell you." But then I sees two more on 'em comen down Loy Hell luggen a dark man atween 'em, so Oi says, "Et's them geppos, then, es et?" And what do he say to that?'

'He says, "'Op et, 'cos your guess es as good as moine and you are obstructen me in the course of moi dooty, so sleng your 'ook and don't come yer no more."'

'So then what does Oi do?'

'You pokes your tongue out at hem and then you sees your lettle neppers and you cotches up weth them and you cleans up Bert weth some long grass and washes hem off in the brook and runs 'em both home and tells your dad about the murder whoile your mam feneshes up cleanen young Bert at the ketchen senk.''

At this moment the Sunday school superintendent came out and rang a handbell and ordered us all inside the building, but Our Sarah said to her group,

'Oi en agoen en there. Let's go down the sheepwash and see what's doen.'

'Can't, in our Sunday clothes,' said Kenneth. 'Besides, our cousins would know and they'd split on us. I think we'd better go in.'

'I shan't,' I said, as I noticed our cousins and several others sneaking away towards the gate. 'I'm never going in there again after what that man said to me last time. I vote we walk up to the big house and try to get a word with Lionel. He won't have heard about the murder and I want to be the first to tell him, and to tell him about Mr Ward because he's a relation.'

'You don't really think Mr Ward is a murderer, do you?'

'He might even be the person who got murdered. Anyway, coming with me?'

'All right. We'd better go by way of The Marsh and up Lovers' Lane, so as not to go past Aunt Kirstie's.'

'We can't go up Lovers' Lane if the police have roped off the sheepwash. They might arrest us.'

'Not they. They can only send us away.'

'We're not supposed to use Lovers' Lane, anyway, and we've done one bad thing already, not going into Sunday school.'

'You can take a horse to Sunday school but you can't make it sing hymns,' said Kenneth.

We giggled at this witticism and passed out at the Sunday school gate. As we reached Mother Honour's shop Kenneth looked across the road at the tumbledown cottage and said, 'I suppose Mr Ward couldn't be hiding in there? Let's go and look.'

'Oh, come on,' I said. 'We can't go into that filthy place in our Sunday clothes.' So we crossed over at Mother Honour's, avoided the cottage and went on to The Marsh by way of the bridge and the culvert. It was, I suppose, less than half a mile to the sheepwash and long before we got there we could see several people standing about, but none of them looked like policemen.

'Might be detectives in plain clothes,' said Kenneth.

'One of them's Uncle Arthur,' I said, for I could see the two dogs. 'We'd better go back. We don't want questions asked about Sunday school.'

But the dogs had spotted us. Floss was on a lead; Vicky, who could be trusted, was not. She came leaping and bounding up to us and Uncle Arthur turned round to order her back and saw us.

'It's a fair cop,' muttered Kenneth, as he stooped to fondle Vicky. 'What shall we say?'

As it happened, there was no need to say anything, for Uncle Arthur either had forgotten or did not realise that we ought to have been in Sunday school. Later we remembered that he had not been present when we received our marching orders.

'You two get off home,' he said. 'No place for children, this isn't.'

'Why isn't it?' I asked, playing the innocent. I noticed, incidentally, that the ropes and stakes which Our Sarah had mentioned were no longer in position and that the bystanders were neither policemen nor detectives, but Sunday morning idlers come to gawp at the spot marked with a cross.

'Something happened last night to a poor young girl,' said Uncle Arthur, 'so you mind what your dad and mam tells you, and don't you ever go speaking to no strangers.'

'We never do,' I said, forgetting for the moment that once Kenneth had spoken to Old Sukie. We fell in beside Uncle Arthur and when we reached grandfather's little wooden bridge over the brook, our uncle indicated it and told us to cut off home. This did not fit in with our plans at all, but we crossed the planks, opened the iron gate and walked a little way up the path between the currant bushes. When we snaked back to the gate and cautiously opened it, Uncle Arthur was almost up to the culvert. We watched him cross the little bridge and disappear round the corner. He had taken the road which led away from the village and, indeed, had he planned to return home, he would have accompanied us.

'He's killing time until the pub opens at twelve,' said Kenneth, 'then he'll go in and ask the men if they've seen Mr Ward. I reckon we've got at least a couple of hours.'

'We haven't, you know,' I said. 'Sunday school comes out at eleven to be ready for church. We'll be expected home.'

'We can say we went for a walk.'

'What! When Uncle Arthur thinks we went straight home when he left us?'

'Oh, well, perhaps we'd better just hang about until Sunday school comes out, then, and look in on Aunt Kirstie just to get ourselves identified and then we can go off again. She'll be too busy with the Sunday roast to bother about what we're up to, and dinner isn't on the table until half-past one, so how about that?'

'How will we know when Sunday school is over?'

'We'll have to get back there and join the others as they come out.'

'Suppose we're spotted getting there?'

'We won't be. All we've got to do is nip past Polly's stable, get through the fence, nip through the hermit's cottage and sneak past Mrs Honour's.'

'That's if there's nobody in the cottage. Suppose Mr Ward is in there again! And it's such a mess!'

'Have to chance it. Come on,' said Kenneth, 'and look out for that frock of yours. We don't want questions asked about damage to Sunday clothes.'

'Just the reason I said before. I don't want to go to that cottage,' I said. 'It's so filthy.'

'Suit yourself. I'll go alone, then, and come back here and give you the tip when Sunday school is out.'

But this was too much for my elder-sisterly pride.

'Oh, come on, then,' I said crossly and, without another word, we made our way past the stable and squeezed through between the widened bars in the hermit's backyard fence.

We stood a moment, listening, but there was not a sound in the weedy, overgrown garden, not a bird-note, not even a scurrying rat. The silence, indeed, was uncanny and I think we both felt we ought not to break it. It was an enchantment, but an uncomfortable one. I remember thinking of a ghost-story I had read where the most sinister ghosts were not confined to the hours of darkness, but stalked the earth, tall and terrible as the Host of the Sidh, at noonday at the full zenith of the sun.

There was no wind, either, not so much as the sigh of a zephyr, and my thoughts took another although not a more comforting turn.

'It's like Walter de la Mare,' I said softly, for my class had had an enlightened young teacher the previous term, a student from a London college, who took us once a week for poetry.

'It's like where someone has died,' said Kenneth. 'Let's leave. The place gives me the creeps.'

There was only one major change inside the stinking, grisly little cottage. Somebody had filled in Mr Ward's grave-like hole and stamped the earth flat over it. His pickaxe was leaning up against a filthy wall, but his spade had gone. We heard later that the police had found it at the bottom of the deepest part of the sheepwash.

* * *

No questions were asked regarding Sunday school, but this did not surprise us much. Very little notice was ever taken of our doings so long as we did not get openly into mischief and very little interest was displayed in those things which interested us. This was not owing to negligence, but simply to the fact that, so long as we ate heartily, were what the aunts termed 'biddable' and did not appear to be sickening for anything, our welfare, both physical and spiritual, was taken for granted-a state of affairs which suited everybody, ourselves included.

Sunday dinner-it was roast loin of pork and I was given a chop with a bit of delicious kidney in it-was over at a quarter to three and, as usual, we were sent next door to Aunt Lally to do our Sunday reading of improving literature. As, like Aunt Kirstie and Uncle Arthur, Aunt Lally retired to her bed until Sunday tea-time, we never found much difficulty in slipping out of the house without waking grandfather, whose custom it was to put a large handkerchief over his face and sleep in his armchair until Aunt Lally woke him to give him his tea. When she reappeared she always found us piously perusing the books and pamphlets she had left with us and I will say for her that she never catechised us upon what we were supposed to have read. From her point of view, it was easier not to do so than to involve us in lies or to hear our unpalatable truths. I cannot really believe she thought we had spent the best part of two hours in reading 'How Paul's penny became a pound' or 'Little Meg's Children', let alone the tracts and other moralistic works of which she had such a collection, but she was a simple soul, so perhaps she did think we were as good as I am sure we appeared to be.

On this particular Sunday afternoon we gave her a good quarter of an hour to get settled upstairs and for grandfather to begin his gentle snoring, then we crept down the back stairs to the scullery and left by the back door. We had no fear of encountering Uncle Arthur or Aunt Kirstie. They, too, would have retired upstairs until it was tea-time. It was most grown-ups' invariable custom on Sundays.

As we walked up the hill to the manor house we discussed how best to get hold of Lionel and decided to try the garden first. If he was not there, the next best thing, we thought, would be to knock at the back door and enquire for him, as it would probably be answered by one of the maids, whereas the front door would be opened by the overpowering, supercilious, majestic butler.

As it happened, we were lucky. Lionel was down by the pond chucking stones, of which he appeared to have collected a fair-sized heap from the gravel drive, into the water. He seemed pleased to see us, although he informed us that it might mean saying goodbye, as he was forbidden to go into the village.

'It's this murder,' he said. 'There are policemen up at the house this very minute. They've been here all day questioning people. I don't suppose you know about it yet, but there's been a murder on The Marsh.'

'Of course we know. Everybody knows. But why should police come here?' asked Kenneth. 'Has one of you done the murder?' (Of course he was thinking of Mr Ward.)

'I shouldn't imagine so, but we don't really know. You remember my sister had a birthday party yesterday? Well, one of the guests went out and got herself killed. That's why the police are here,' explained Lionel.

'The body was found down by the sheepwash,' said Kenneth.

'So you do know about it! I'll tell you something you don't know, though. Well, anyway, I bet you don't. You don't know what she was wearing when she was killed. Want to see?'

'Don't be silly,' I said. 'You're just being cocky. The police wouldn't let you have whatever she was wearing. They would keep it for clues and things.'

'You don't know everything,' said Lionel. 'Come on. I'll show you. I ought to charge you something, but I don't suppose you have any money, have you?'

'Spent it all at the fair.'

'Oh, what was the fair like? Was it any good?'

'Fabulous. Uncle Arthur won a cigar and a coconut and we saw some wrestling and there was a fight and we didn't get home till after midnight. What are you going to show us?'

'Come and see. We'll sneak in by the side door and use the back staircase. Don't speak a word or make any kind of a row until we're in my playroom with the door shut.'

We crept in past the pantry, mounted the servants' staircase and tip-toed along to the attics which were Lionel's domain. He took us into the playroom, shut the door and disappeared into his bedroom. In a few minutes one of the hideous and frightful creatures which had collected for charity in the village on Saturday came prancing into the room.

I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle an involuntary cry as the creature pirouetted towards us and I recoiled from it, putting out my other hand to fend it off. Kenneth dodged over to the bedroom door and gently closed it. Then he said,

'How did you manage to get those things?'

Lionel danced about a bit more and then shrugged himself out of the lendings which he laid carefully on the only armchair in the room.

'I managed to get them because I sneaked them and wouldn't give them back,' he said.

'Off the body? I don't believe a word of it,' said Kenneth.

'Of course not off the body. These are duplicates. There were two of each costume and I picked the one I thought might fit. Doctor Tassall brought them from the hospital in a wagonette. Amabel got Grandmamma to hire it and buy the costumes for the party. When they came they were laid out in the dining-room, so I took one for myself and in the end I was allowed to keep it because I wasn't going to the party and had to go to bed early. So they all tried on their costumes for size, you know, and this girl who got murdered had the one like this. I wore mine, on and off, most of the evening until my bedtime. I went round with my money-box cadging sixpences from the guests when Grandmamma wasn't about. Then, when they were dressing for the charades, this girl came up here with her costume and asked me if I would mind swopping over with her, as she thought my costume might be a bit roomier than hers. She was a fairly fat person, you see, and actually rather plain. As a matter of fact, she hadn't been invited to the party, but she brought three others in her brother's car, so, of course, she had to be asked to stay. My sister was a bit annoyed about it, because the person who should have brought the other three girls was the brother, but he had to cry off at the last minute because he'd crocked his knee or something. My sister didn't want another girl, especially such a plain girl as that, so she made a scene to Grandmamma and Grandmamma was a good bit sick with her.'

'So did you swop costumes with this girl?'

'Oh, yes. It suited me all right. The only difference in the costumes was the size, so far as I could see, except one was more brown and the other was more green, and the masks were a bit different, that's all. Nothing, really. Anyway, she offered me half-a-crown to swop, so it was worth it.'

'But that means,' said Kenneth, 'that the wrong person got murdered.'

'What wrong person?'

'Well, you, I suppose the murder was meant for.'

'Oh, shucks. I was in bed at that time.'

'Well, have the police questioned you as well as the others?'

'Oh, yes, but I couldn't tell them anything except that we'd swopped the costumes.'

Kenneth and I held a deep discussion as we walked homewards down the hill.

'She was mistaken for Lionel,' said Kenneth. 'I'm certain of it. She wasn't even supposed to be at the party.'

'But who would want to murder Lionel? He's only a boy,' I argued.

'The princes in the Tower were only boys, but they were in somebody's way and perhaps Lionel is, too.'

'Whose way could he be in?'

'Mr Ward's, of course. Don't you remember Lionel telling us that the big house, and all that, would be his when he was twenty-one?'

'So what?'

'Well, if Mr Ward is a relation, perhaps it would all be his if Lionel was out of the way.'

I was immensely impressed by this.

'No wonder Lionel's parents won't let him come down to the village any more,' I said. 'It's sickening for him, but I don't blame them. They must think he's still in danger.'

'Well, I expect he is. Murderers don't stick at much, and if Mr Ward is a murderer and can get that house and everything by killing Lionel, I expect he will.'

'Lionel ought to be guarded night and day,' I said.

'Are you volunteering?' Kenneth enquired.

'We couldn't do much against a murderer.'

'We could yell the place down, I suppose, if we saw him collaring Lionel.'

'A fat lot of use that would be. The murderer would simply murder us, too, to shut our mouths. That's what murderers always do. It's in the Sunday papers,' I said.

We decided to leave Lionel to his fate. Aunt Lally found us deep in Moments of Meditation and Little Thoughts of Great Men when she came downstairs at five and sent us off to Aunt Kirstie to be given our Sunday tea.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MRS KEMPSON AGAIN

It is so kind of you, dear Mrs Bradley, to agree to come down here, but as you will see from what follows, at present it would be nothing but a waste of your very valuable time. Ward is no longer here. He seems to have walked out of his lodgings last Friday and has completely disappeared. The Landgraves, with whom he was domiciled, informed me of what had happened, and, of course, they do not know how to trace him and are upset at losing what I suppose has been a welcome source of income. Neither is that by any means the worst of it.

Ward's disappearance, provided it could be permanent, would be a relief to me, but, in view of what has happened, I can obtain no satisfaction from it. In fact, the reverse is the case. I am filled with misgivings and am only too conscious that very soon my misgivings may give place to something not far removed from actual trepidation. Let me relate the circumstances so far as they are known to me at present.

They appear to stem from a party which I gave for Amabel, my grand-daughter, little Lionel's sister, on her nineteenth birthday which she celebrated on Saturday. The arrangements were made before she left her finishing school in Paris and it seemed reasonable to me that the list of guests should be compiled by Amabel herself. She sent me the names and addresses of her friends and I issued the invitations personally.

Quite a number of the guests lived in London, where Amabel's parents have a flat at which the family stay when they are in England, so the names on Amabel's list were almost all of them unknown to me, but this occasioned me no uneasiness, since I knew (or thought I did) that Amabel was a good, sensible girl who would be unlikely to make undesirable acquaintances and still more unlikely to invite any such to my house. I ought to add that nobody living in my vicinity appeared to have been invited, or I should have instituted enquiries. That I was deceived you will learn as you read on. I am bitterly disappointed in Amabel, and have told her so, but she claims that the address in question was valid when she sent it to me. I refer, of course, to the London address of Doctor Tassall.

Against Amabel's wishes, I insisted upon receiving her guests in formal fashion. I stood at the head of the staircase with her beside me and I had Barker announce each arrival. Among them was this young man, Doctor Noel Tassall. When I read his name on Amabel's list I had no idea that he was Doctor Matters' new assistant-not that I employ Doctor Matters, of course; I go to a London man whom I have known for years-but I had taken it for granted that Doctor Tassall's was an academic title and that he was one of Amabel's former teachers, since, against my better judgment, she had been taught, up to her eighteenth year, at a co-educational boarding school where half the staff were men.

I recognised Doctor Tassall, of course, as soon as he mounted the stairs, for I had seen him riding his horse in the village, but it had never occurred to me to find out his name and I cannot remember who it was who first pointed him out to me and told me that he had come to assist Doctor Matters, an elderly man and not, I would think, really up to his work, although probably he still retains enough knowledge and energy to deal with the village ailments and deliver the village babies.

This, however, is beside the point. The fact of the matter is that, all the time I was at the party-I left it and retired to my room at ten-I noticed that Amabel danced almost entirely with this eminently unsuitable young man and that their attitude towards one another was warm, informal and, not to mince words, far more intimate and exclusive than could possibly meet with my approval. At the first opportunity I spoke to her.

'You are neglecting your other guests,' I said. She was flushed and smiling. She gave me a swift peck on the cheek.

'Oh, don't be stuffy, darling,' she said. 'Anyway, he expects to be called out to a confinement at any minute, so not to worry.'

'How do you come to know Doctor Tassall?' I asked.

'Can't remember. Met him in London somewhere. Ah, here he comes with some provender. I must say, Grandmamma, you've done me proud with the fodder and horse-trough.' (Such language from a girl!)

It was soon after this that I retired to my room and had my maid put me to bed. I knew that my room was sufficiently far from the revels to be free of their raucous sounds and the last I remember of the party was when I heard one of the young women suggest that they play charades. Amabel said,

'All right. The girls can have my room to dress up in, and the men-may they use yours, Nigel?'

My dear adopted boy, of course, was present at the beginning of the party and I am bound to say that his conduct was in marked contrast to that of Amabel. He mixed with the others, danced in turn with the young women and in every way comported himself with dignity and discretion. He consented to allow his den to be used as a dressing-room for the male guests and before sides could be picked for the charades Doctor Tassall was called away. My daughter and her husband had left the hall earlier, explaining to me that the young people would be happier on their own. If this was meant as a hint to me to follow their example, it failed of its object. I thought that a certain amount of supervision was desirable, but at mention of charades I decided that, as I was feeling tired and as this new activity was innocent and innocuous enough but would probably be extremely noisy, I was justified in seeking a little well-earned peace and quiet. I left word with Barker to lock up when everybody had gone and I went to bed. I took my tablet and fell asleep almost at once.

My sleep, however, did not last very long. What woke me I do not know, unless it was a premonition that all was not well.

I leaned up on my elbow and listened. I could bear nothing except a soft sound of scuffling just outside my door. Then a girl's voice said: 'Stop it, you fool! There might be somebody asleep in there!'

I switched on the light and rang my night-bell. After what I considered to be an unnecessary delay, my maid came in,

'Bridges,' I said, 'who is that on the landing?'

'Landing, madam?'

'Two persons have been scuffling about on the landing outside my room. Ask them to go downstairs at once!'

'There's nobody outside your door, madam. I would have seen them as I come along the corridor.'

'Well, anyway, it is time the party began to break up,' I said. 'Go downstairs and take my instructions to Mr Nigel. He will know how to cope. I don't want people here after midnight. After all, tomorrow is Sunday. Besides, most of these young people have to get back to London.' She returned after about ten minutes.

'Mr Nigel isn't there, madam. Miss Amabel tells me as he had arranged to pick up the photographer at eleven, there being no other way of getting him here so late excepting by car.'

'Oh, yes, I remember,' I said. 'Well, he should not be long. Tell Barker to have a word with him directly he gets back. As soon as the photographer has taken the groups, the party is to close down.'

'Very good, madam.'

I settled myself once more, secure in the knowledge that Nigel was to be relied on to respect my wishes and also the sanctity of the Sabbath. I was sorry, all the same, that he had had to absent himself from the party, for I thought it would take him more than an hour to drive into the town, pick up the photographer and return here, and I was not anxious to give Amabel and her friends carte blanche while they were unsupervised. I thought of sending Bridges to find Harlow Conyers and my daughter and request them to take charge, but I feared it would be useless, as, from the beginning, they had not been in favour of superintending the party. It was only because of my insistence upon their presence that they had been persuaded to attend it.

I fell asleep again at last and exactly how long I slept I do not know. I was awakened by a tapping at my door, followed by the entrance of Bridges in her dressing-gown.

'Madam,' she said, 'there's a bit of a schemozzle downstairs, and the gentlemen told Barker to tell me to let you know.'

'A what?' I said sharply. 'What on earth do you mean?'

'One of the young ladies went out to get a breath of air more than three hours ago, madam, and hasn't never come back,' she explained, looking excited and important, as servants do when they suspect that they are the bearers of ill-tidings or a breath of scandal.

'What of it?' I asked crossly. 'I suppose she has tired of the party and gone home.'

'It is not hardly thought so, madam. Seems some of them got too warm after the bits of play-acting, madam, and went out, but nobody don't think as she has gone home, seeing as how it seems she was still in her fancy dress, one of them costumes as the gentlemen students wore for the charity parade this morning in the village.'

'Still in her fancy dress? But why? What makes you think so?'

'Miss Amabel says as the clothes she come here in, madam, is still in the bedroom.'

'But whatever can have possessed her to go out in that hideous masquerade?'

'Something to do with the photographs, madam, it's thought. Miss Amabel said as they was to keep them on.'

'Oh, of course! They were to be taken wearing these monstrosities.'

'It seems they was hot to wear, madam, so this young lady says as she would just take a turn up the drive, but she hasn't never come back in again. Doctor Tassall, what was called out on a case before you retired, madam, come back about one o'clock, but says he never saw her on the drive, nor did Mr Nigel, who come in just a while ago, which he reckons he would have picked her out if she'd of been there, so Mr Nigel and them are talking about a search-party, madam, and mention was made of them gypsies up the hill, madam.'

'Oh, nonsense!' I exclaimed. 'What would gypsies be doing in my grounds? Anyhow, which of the girls is it?'

'It's the young lady which, as you know, madam, come in a car with three other young ladies and was not in her party dress, madam, and the car is still here, madam. Besides, Mr Nigel says you couldn't get one of them horrible costumes into a car because you couldn't sit down in it, and she couldn't hardly have took it off, madam, because Miss Amabel says as her clothes is still here, like I said, and I knows for a fact as the young ladies was all stripped down to their undies, madam. She wouldn't have took the fancy costume off without coming back to the house, madam, and that's what her friends say she certainly has not done, madam.'

'Oh, dear! How very tiresome people are! I suppose I had better go down,' I said.

She helped me to dress and down I went, not in the best of tempers at this disturbance of my night's rest. Except for one young man who was sitting on the floor with his head against the wall, obviously in a drunken slumber, the guests who were left looked sober and anxious enough.

Nigel came up to me. Doctor Tassall was with him.

'Sorry about this, darling,' he said. 'You go back to bed. Tassall and I will cope. I'm organising a search-party. Ten to one the silly wench has gone and twisted her ankle or something of that sort. Not to worry. Maybe somebody ought to have gone looking for her sooner, but some of them were a trifle under the influence and I suppose they were all enjoying themselves, so I don't think anybody noticed she was missing until about half-an-hour ago. I've had the house pretty well combed, but she isn't here.'

'I shall wait up until your search-party returns,' I said. 'I cannot imagine what the foolish girl was thinking of, to go wandering away at this hour of the morning.'

'I'm afraid people have been very remiss, darling,' he said. 'It wasn't "this hour of the morning" when she stepped out. She's been missing since about eleven o'clock. If only that damned photographer had turned up, we should have realised she wasn't with us, but, of course, he didn't show up, although I waited for an hour in Broad Street, where I'd arranged to meet him.'

'Photographer?' I said. 'Oh, yes, of course. Amabel wanted photographs, didn't she? Did he not appear?'

'Not even his astral body. I suppose they kept him so long at that County Councillors' dinner, or whatever his other assignment was, that he thought it was too late to meet me and come on here. It wasn't until the other three girls decided it was time to pile into their car and go home, that they realised their driver was missing.'

'I can't think why they did not realise it much earlier,' I said. 'They knew, I suppose, that she had left the house.'

'I understand that, after the charades, most people went on to the terrace to cool off,' said young Doctor Tassall.

'That's right,' said another young man. 'Amabel wouldn't let us take off the lendings because of the photographer. Most of us went outside for a breath of air, so she wouldn't have been missed for a bit. Then people sort of drifted in again and hung about because, I mean, you couldn't dance in those fancy outfits, and after that I'm afraid there was a bit of hunting in couples and people sneaked away upstairs and took the costumes off, don't you know, and so forth. You couldn't really say, at any given time, where anybody was, and that's the strength of it, so she wouldn't really have been missed at all, you see.'

'I cannot understand what Harlow and Esmé were thinking about, to walk away from the party the way they did, and go off without a thought for their responsibilities. After all, Amabel is their daughter,' I said angrily.

'Well, darling,' said Nigel, with an unpalatable degree of truth, 'isn't that a case of the pot calling the kettle black? It's your house, after all, and you walked out and left the revellers to it, just as they did. It's a great pity that Tassall and I both had to be out of the house at the same time. As for that damned photographer, I could wish him at Jericho and Tassall's expectant mother, too! Anyway, we're going to search the grounds. The wretched girl can't be all that far away!'

CHAPTER NINE

LETTERS

Mrs Kempson's Letter Continued

From this point onwards, my dear Mrs Bradley, my letter may appear somewhat incoherent, but I will be as lucid as I can. Some of the remaining men claimed that they must escort their sisters or female friends home and would therefore be unavailable as members of a search-party. This seemed to me reasonable enough at that hour of the morning, so, in the end, the searchers were reduced to three: my son-in-law Harlow Conyers, my beloved Nigel and Amabel's friend, young Doctor Tassall, who immediately and rightly stated that, if the girl had suffered an injury, he would be of more use than anybody else.

They were about to leave the house with the only two electric torches we could muster, when Lionel came down in his pyjamas and dressing-gown and wanted to know what was happening. He demanded to be allowed to join the search-party, but, of course, this was out of the question. He then stated that he possessed a powerful torch and was sent upstairs to fetch it and be prepared to lend it to Doctor Tassall. This he did and, as a reward, was told by his father that he might stay up for a while, which he elected to do. As soon as they had gone, he put on the fearsome fancy dress which he had commandeered when the costumes arrived. It was that of an iguanadon, or so he informed me.

He then settled down and gave me a lecture on prehistoric animals, which passed the time until we received further news. I was glad of the child's company, for I had a premonition that something very serious had happened. At last my son-in-law presented himself and looked taken aback at the sight of his young son. He sent him straight back to bed and seemed angry with him. I could see that something else was the matter, and I looked anxiously at Harlow, who, after all, had given permission for Lionel to stay up.

'Has she hurt herself?' I asked, when the child had gone.

'Yes, badly, I'm afraid. I came on ahead to tell you. The doctor and Nigel are bringing her in.'

'How bad is it?' I asked.

'Worse than bad,' said Harlow. 'We're in for trouble, mater. The poor girl has copped it.'

'Do you mean-you don't mean-rape?' I asked, my thoughts flying in horror to the gypsy encampment on Lye Hill, although previously I had dismissed such an idea.

'That remains to be discovered,' said Harlow grimly. 'Take hold on yourself, mater. The primary fact we have to face is that the poor kid is dead.'

'Dead?' I said, in stupid repetition of the unbelievable word.

He nodded. 'I'd better go back and help them along with her,' he said. 'I thought you ought to know, though, before they bring her into the house. Will you ring the police?'

'The police?' I echoed, stupidly again.

'Yes, of course. We mustn't delay. Ring them at once.'

'But what shall I tell them?'

'That we have to report the finding of a girl's body near the sheepwash at the foot of Lye Hill. Just tell them that. All further information can wait until they arrive.' He went off and I did as he suggested. The police asked on the telephone whether we knew the girl's identity. I replied that we did, and was told that they would be along immediately and that nothing was to be touched. I indicated that this was nonsense and that the body, as the girl was a guest of mine, would be brought to the house, but the policeman at the other end, having given his orders, had rung off.

I sat and waited. At the end of about an hour Harlow returned. I told him what the police had said. He nodded.

'Just as well we had young Tassall with us,' he said. 'Told us the very same thing. He and Nigel are standing by.'