The scope and nature of the rambles depended largely upon the Advanced Subjects chosen; thus Laura, ignoring her gift for English, had elected to take Advanced Geography, and Kitty, having no particular preferences, had put her name down for the same group. Alice was down for Advanced Biology, and spent most of her time cutting sections and putting them under the microscope when she was not engaged upon Field Work.

For about the first five weeks of the term the weather was so bad that even some of the fixtures in hockey had to be abandoned. When March came, however, the wet and the heavy mists had cleared away, the sun shone, and the snappy, invigorating air seemed to invite the students out upon the moors.

One bright, cold, gusty afternoon, the Advanced Geography group, having been advised previously of the arrangements by the senior lecturer in the subject, collected after lunch in the Senior Common Room of the College with notebooks, pencils, cameras, geological hammers and Ordnance maps, ‘ready for fairies at the bottom of the garden or a full-scale invasion, or anything in between the two,’ as Laura put it, and prepared to set out upon an excursion.

‘What have we here, Dog?’ asked Kitty, as her friend consulted a business-like little notebook completely filled with writing, maps and sketches.

‘A pearl of great price,’ said Laura, lowering her voice. ‘My spies inform me that these bally outings or expeditions always follow the same course, year after year. Now this,’ she tapped the notebook, ‘was compiled, doubtless with much sweat, by one Tweetman of Athelstan, some five years ago. She left it to her junior, one Plumstead. Plumstead bequeathed it to a crony in the first year, y-clept Mason. Mason left it in her will to friend Cartwright (who informs me upon oath that the only reason she wasn’t sent down last term was because her First Year Advanced Geography (Excursion Section) notebook was so impressive). Cartwright, having crossed the Rubicon and having no further use for the treasure, has passed it on to me. You shall share, on condition you’ll edit your stuff so that it isn’t word for word like mine.’

‘What a godsend!’ said Kitty, eyeing the notebook reverently.

‘Not a word to young Alice, by the way,’ said Laura, warningly. ‘Her morals are not as sound as one would wish. She might think we oughtn’t to use the beastly thing.’

‘Good Lord! Why not?’ said Kitty. ‘A thing like that ought to go down to posterity.’

‘Well, it probably will,’ said Laura.

Kitty and Laura enjoyed their walk. Avoiding company, they strolled together, well in the rear of the party, conversing amiably and from time to time checking the geography of the landscape with the assistance of Miss Tweetman.

‘Points of interest,’ read Laura, standing still. ‘Two morainic mounds, one to the right of the road between the canal and the railway, and one between the road and the river on the left-hand side. Got that, duckie? Swing bridges over the canal. Well, we know all about bridges over the river! At least, I do. I’ll tell you what! Has it ever struck you to wonder where the deed was done?’

‘What deed, Dog?’ inquired Kitty, producing a paper bag and abstracting parkin, which she divided and the two of them shared.

‘Why, the murder of Miss Murchan. You heard about the Great Fire during the Christmas Vac, didn’t you?’

‘No. Where?’

‘Here in Athelstan, so far as I can make out. I searched for traces of it, but can’t find any. Mrs Bradley’s man was almost burnt to death.’

‘Doesn’t exactly show signs of it,’ said Kitty. ‘I saw him yesterday, turning Miss Hollis’s car for her. He looked all right to me.’

‘I am only repeating what I’ve heard. And another curious thing. You know that blighter Cornflake, who was at your school for School Prac.?’

‘Yes?’

‘Hasn’t turned up this term.’

‘Oh, I knew that. She’s got measles.’

‘Measles?’

‘Yes. Can be jolly dangerous when you’re grown-up, I believe. Somebody in Rule Britannia’s told me. I forget who it was. I say, keep your eyes skinned for a pub. They’ll still be open. We could get some beer.’

‘A scheme,’ said Laura, embracing it with some eagerness. ‘Don’t suppose the late Tweetman had the forethought to bung down anything useful like that in her notes.’

Kitty gazed at the landscape, and then sniffed the air.

‘I can give you the next bit without any notes,’ she said. ‘Gas works and a sewage farm, both on the left’

‘You’re telling me,’ said Laura, wrinkling her nose. ‘I suppose if we get gaol fever or typhus or anything, we can claim on the College. I shall tell my people to, anyway.’

‘Change in the landscape. Shoot,’ said Kitty, who had taken down in shorthand (to the never-failing amazement of her acquaintances she could put down a hundred and twenty to a hundred and fifty words a minute) the winged words dictated by her friend from Miss Tweetman’s invaluable script.

‘Eh? Oh, sorry. Yes. New housing estate. See it? Local building material used.’

‘What’s that? Red sandstone?’

‘No, mutt. Limestone blocks, I think, but don’t worry. Tweetman’s sure to have a footnote about it somewhere. Just bung down what I say. Criticism unwelcome and unnecessary. River crossed — Yes, and here’s the bridge… and here’s a pub. All clear? Bung in, then. This is today’s great thought.’

Having drunk their beer they came on to the bridge and looked at the shallow swirling water.

‘… and wool mills seen,’ continued Laura, balancing Miss Tweetman’s notes on the coping. ‘Now the moor. Flat-topped. Canal. Railway embankment. Railway embankment?… Oh, yes. Over there. See it? To the left was

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